


Fault Lines

by louisisthebae



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Football Player Louis, Hotel Sex, Older Woman/Younger Man, Shameless Smut, Sloppy Makeouts, Student Louis, Teacher-Student Relationship, lol i know no one reads het on here but hey, louis is really small and cute at first but then he gets jealous and becomes possessive, not technically underage because they don't do the do until louis is legal so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-26 18:08:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 93,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1697630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louisisthebae/pseuds/louisisthebae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Iris is a 24-year-old sarcastic and Shakespeare loving English teacher who sometimes talks to her Siamese cat. When placed at Farleigh Heights Secondary in Northern Manchester, she meets Louis, her football playing, Year 13 Literature student who's determined to make her life both a living heaven, and hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This contains a relationship with an age gap of 6-7 years. If you're not comfortable with this, then don't read. Thank you.

It’s five o’clock in the morning, and Iris is sure that she had intentions to temporarily shift into an early bird for her first day of teaching at a new school, but she can’t for the life of her remember why she’d ever want to abandon the warmth of her bed.

She rolls over so she’s lying flat on her stomach and nuzzles up against the soft blankets, allowing for her limp arm to drape over the mattress carelessly. Something furry and moving brushes against her fingertips and Iris absent mindlessly scratches the top of her cat, Florence’s head.

“Hey, Florence.” she mumbles into the sheets. She knows she shouldn’t be talking to her own goddamn cat but it’s a habit she just can’t seem to break out of. “Why did I become a teacher?”

Her Siamese cat gives a low purr in response, rubbing her skinny muzzle all over Iris’ sleepy hand. Iris is almost disappointed she didn’t receive a logical, well-thought-out answer, but then she remembers this is her cat she’s challenging, and the last time she checked, cats don’t understand English.

“Well, time to get up I suppose.” she mumbles to herself in hope that it’ll prompt her to lift herself off the mattress. Instead she lies there in the early morning silence like a plank of wood left to rot. She’s twenty-four years old, and should have matured past this teenage, I-don’t-ever-want-to-leave-this-bed phase, but apparently not.

“Alright,” she tells herself “One, two..” she proceeds to count upwards, her voice muffled and her muscles barely moving an inch. “…nine, ten! Fucking ten!” she near-shouts, and probably startles her much cherished pet in the process as she can feel Florence jump slightly at her outburst.

In a movement so sudden she flails her limbs around like a lunatic until the duvet has successfully been ridden off her stubborn body. Springing to life, she rolls out of bed commando style and almost has to stop herself from falling flat on the wooden floor beneath her. “Okay,” she cries in mock motivation “time to inspire some dumb, hormonal teenagers!”

She likes her job, she tries to convince herself. Well, she did when she started, and that wasn’t even that long ago. A mere twelve months ago, in fact. She was working as a substitute teacher for high schools across Northern Manchester, and although the pay was terrible she quite enjoyed it. She was rather good at it too, might she add. Although some lessons all she had to do was explain the set work, sit back and stream Breaking Bad on her laptop, there were some classes were she had her chance to shine. She was always the smart kind, one who wanted to learn and was generally an all-rounder, P.E included. So it was no surprise that she always had something extra to teach, something she could expand on from the vague notes that the teacher she was covering for had left. She was different; she made the kids want to learn and taught them things that may actually be of some use for them. It always bought a smile to her face at the end of her lessons when she’d hear mutters of ‘I learnt more in that one class than a year with Mr. Tate’ or something or other.

After six months of that she got offered to teach permanently for the rest of the year at a prestigious high school called Kingsley Grammar, and only two months ago was she dispatched. She’d had a great time there, teaching Year 11s the wonders of Shakespeare’s _Macbeth_ and showcasing _To Kill a Mocking Bird_ to Year 9s. But the teacher she’d been replacing had been nursed back to health and was set to start back the following year.

So now, she’s found herself a full-time position at a slightly less reputable school called Farleigh Heights, and only yesterday did she start. It was good, just being there with all the staff, getting to know her new colleagues before the real teaching began, but she’d be lying if she said she was excited to think up lesson plans and mark a seemingly endless amount of papers.

Yesterday had been a settling-in, planning day, and on it she’d discovered the classes she’d be taking for the year: Year 12 Literature, Year 11 History, Year 11 English and Year 10 Advanced English. She’s glad with that pool, as she’s never particularly liked taking the younger year levels. Plus, she gets to teach Literature and History, and those are her two most favourite topics in the world. Her own cat is named after Florence Nightingale, goddammit.

 _But today,_ she thinks as she collects her near burned toast from the grill, _I’m going to meet my new students for the first time. This could go one way or another._

She eats her unsatisfying toast in the silence of her flat, wondering what she’s going to wear because those things are important. Deciding it’s too quiet she switches on the TV but immediately regrets it when Kim Kardashian and Kanye West appear on the screen. Knowing she’d much prefer to stare at absolutely nothing for two hours, she turns her modest, cheap television off again.

Dusting crumbs off her tattered pyjama top, she cradles the plate back to the kitchen and places it by the sink amongst the other clutter she cannot be arsed to clean up. She considers bringing out that bottle of merlot she has stored in fridge and pouring herself a generous glass, but then rationally concludes that it would be unwise to turn up tipsy in front of ratty teenagers who can probably sense fear.

She retreats back to her disorganised bedroom, dodging the mess of uncared-for clothes and papers containing god knows what. At her wardrobe she pauses and thinks about her outfit choice. How she presents herself to the kids on this crucial first day could make or break her. She could wear a shirt which says all business and impress her boss, but serious isn’t the word her friends would jump at to describe her. Iris likes to have a laugh with her students, perhaps too much, and if she shows up wearing a boring old dress suit, she can’t help but feel she’d be lying to them.

After more time than probably necessary spent sifting through her rack of outfit choices, she finally has it. A white shirt with a black Peter Pan collar; simple but effective. It says that she is, in fact, their teacher, but also offers a pop of quirkiness which invites them to like her. God, she’s good. She even impresses herself sometimes. To expand, she picks out a mustard skater skirt which reaches just above her knees, because she’s young and can get away with it. She slips a pair of tights covered with darkened polka dots over her thankfully skinny legs and finishes the look off with a pair of brogues and a coat to protect her against the early autumn weather.  Mission accomplished, and to a high standard too. 

She pops into the bathroom for a brush of her teeth and other necessities regarding appearance and hygiene. She applies some liquid liner to her eyes in the shape of a wing and leaves her hair like it is. Her hair is chocolate brown and curly, and in her younger years she used to despise of her ringlet-filled locks, always begging her mum to buy her a straightener, but now she embraces it, particularly more so since she’s now discovered a trick for taming the disgruntling frizz which comes as a side effect to enviously pure curly hair.

She’s always been confident with her appearance and never really went through the whole I’m-so-ugly-I’ll-never-get-a-boyfriend phase, mostly because she knew she wasn’t. She doesn’t want to sound conceited, but it’s the truth; she’s quite pretty. She’s not that curvy in all the right places, blonde, tanned girl that all men seem to wag their tongues over, but she is considered fairly attractive. She doesn’t have double d’s, if anything her boobs are a little small, but they’re nice, according to her last boyfriend. ‘A good handful’, he’d described them. She’s also been blessed with a fast metabolism, so she’s quite thin, and her petite frame doesn’t require much space. She likes her look, and that’s probably what’s landed her all those relationships in the past; her sexy confidence and security. And the fact that she’s damn cute.

Small footsteps alert her that Florence has navigated her way into the bathroom in search of some attention. The cream and tan cat gives her a quiet meow before giving Iris ‘the look’.

“Okay, I’ll feed you.” Iris groans, prying herself away from the vanity of her barely-enough-room-for-one bathroom and following after the satisfied feline. She finds herself in the kitchen with a plastic bowl being nosed towards her across the linoleum floor. “Patience.” she instructs.

With an affectionate smile, Iris empties the contents of a can of tuna into her bowl and watches her cat devour it. Sometimes she feels as if Florence is the only solid foundation in her life, along with her flat. Even though it sounds utterly ridiculous. She always seems to be shifting in and out of relationships and jobs and ever since she packed her bags and moved to Manchester to attend university, her family have been halfway across the country. But she always has her cheap, disorganised flat and ungrateful, narcissist cat to come home to.

She catches a flash of the time and almost propels into the air in shock. It’s quarter to six, so realistically she shouldn’t be too concerned, but she had plans to arrive early today so she could finish organising her new work desk and squeeze in a bit more planning for her first class.

It feels strange to think that this is the first time she’s taking a class she can call her own. It’s not ‘Miss Smith’s English class’ she’s teaching, it’s Iris Blackstone’s. She can adjust its structure to the way she wants, can decide whether or not she’s going to be strict on uniform rules or not. She’s excited in that aspect, but not overly ecstatic about her long and welcomed break coming to a close.

She darts around the room gathering all the papers and folders she needs before stuffing them in her satchel. She grabs her keys and phone before bidding Florence farewell and exiting the threshold. Once out of her building she approaches her 1990’s Clio, which is honestly a piece of shit, but the salary of a substitute teacher doesn’t exactly offer much. Hopefully with this new job there’ll be improvements financial wise, albeit meagre.

The drive there is short and fairly uneventful. It consists of bad songs blasting throughout the car’s dated interior and some mild road rage against an old lady who thought it was okay to go 25 in a 50 zone. She curves into the staff car park feeling that mixture of nervousness and excitement which no one has put a name to, even though she knows the sensation will probably disappear once the anticipation of meeting her first pupils is settled. It’s six thirty when she gets there, and everything appears unnervingly deserted. Whatever. She mustn’t forget that she has in fact arrived at stupid o’clock.

When she travels further into the school she sees that there are a few other staff members present, and that at least relieves her to a degree. Upon entering the admin building the office lady offers her a polite smile before returning to her typing and Iris feels quite welcomed. She’d talked to a few people yesterday, probably even witnessed the first buds of some new work friendships, but at the moment she still categorizes herself as alone.

She pops into the social staff room to place her lunch in the fridge, and a teacher she recognises from yesterday’s meeting opens their mouth.

“Hello.” is what he says, giving her a knowing smile, as if to say ‘I don’t want to be here as much as you’. If Iris’ memory is correct, he’s a senior years Biology teacher. Mr. Hammond is his name, she thinks. He’s in his thirties and pretty okay looking. He’d look better if he shaved, to be frank. Wow, it’s only her second day and all Iris can think about is the attractiveness of the people surrounding her. If she’s not careful, she my find herself starting to morph into a high school student again.

“Hiya!” is what she replies back with cheerfully, because she’s the poster girl of British stereotypes. She may as well sit on a throne with a cup of tea and a backdrop of Queen Elizabeth II.

“First proper day back at work, hey?” Mr. Hammond (God, what’s his first name again?) says in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“Not for me exactly. I’m new.” she explains, giving a sheepish smile before, yes, reaching for the teabags.

“Oh that’s right, you’re the new teacher. Iris, right? Have we met?” he asks as Iris continues to brew her tea.

“Briefly, I think.” she answers while setting her tea on the same table as the conversationalist teacher.

“I apologise for forgetting.” he says, stirring the spoon of his own tea.

“S’okay. I’m rather embarrassed since I’ve forgotten your name, so I guess we’re even.” she jokes as she takes a sip.

Mr. Hammond laughs lightly before saying “It’s William, and it’s quite alright.”

They continue this light chatter, which neither of them are frankly enjoying, until they start seeing the first of students arriving through the staff room windows. They’re all sporting the same forest green and burgundy uniform and Iris’ mind races every time she spots a predominantly taller one, wondering if they’re in one of her classes or not. It’s going to send her mad, really, so she bids farewell to William before migrating to the working staff room and then her desk.

She plants her bum on the chair and huffs, patting her palms on the wood of the desk rhythmically. This is it, the place she’s going to stay in for the rest of the year: her desk. It’s pretty bland, if you ask her.

To distract herself she reaches for her schedule. Today’s fairly good: Year 12 Literature first thing, then recess and a free period, followed by Year 11 English, lunch, yard duty for twenty minutes, and then another free period to finish. She’s pleased with that, as there’s not much to do but introduce herself and the texts they’re studying.

But first there’s a ‘welcome back’ whole school assembly in the hall which she must attend, since all the new teachers are being introduced there. She’d rather not, but there’s not much she can do to escape it. She glances at her clock briefly while reviewing some of her lesson plans and realises that the bell for home group is close to sounding. Just as she’s closing her folder it rings throughout the school, and Iris can hear all around her the daunting sound of locker doors opening and rapid teenage chatter.

She asks herself once again, why did she become a teacher?

The assembly is woeful, typical, and Iris is sure she can see a few students beginning to doze off. The principle, Mr. Waters, touches on expected learning behaviours, study habits and all that jazz. He discusses bullying and how Farleigh Heights is a ‘community’, and Iris can see every student groan to their friend. When the principle proceeds to introduce the new staff, including her, a new junior maths teacher and returning librarian, she gives a short lived wave to the thousand students in front of her at the sound of her name.

When it’s over, Iris can’t feel her toes. She makes a mental note to never attend a whole school assembly ever again, no exceptions. Like all other teachers she’s given the duty of shooing the students out of the hall in an orderly manner. A few rowdy boys who look to be in Year 10 shout ‘Hi Miss!’ boisterously as they pass her, and she knows why. At least they don’t appear intelligent; otherwise she’d be worried they’d be in her Advanced English class.

Before long she finds herself walking towards the classroom where her Year 12 Literature class runs. It’s an old portable that’s completely isolated from the main buildings, and you basically have to cross the football pitch to reach it. Iris is almost offended that they’d allocate her a shitty room like this for her most important class, but complaining like a child won’t do her much good on her second day at a new workplace. When she arrives there are a few students already standing by the door.

“Hello!” she greets cheerfully as she fumbles for her keys. A few reply back tired attempts but she doesn’t dare look up and study the faces of her new class. She wants to save it for when she’s marking the register, so she can put a name to each face.

She unlocks the door and gestures the waiting students inside, smiling at them as they go past her in a blur. The rest of them arrive seconds after and once there’s enough pupils in the room for Iris to call it a reasonable class, she shuts the door behind her and feels twenty pairs of eyes watch her as she moves to the front.

“So my name is Miss Blackstone, but can call me Iris.” she adds, writing ‘OR IRIS’ underneath her formal name.   “I think we can safely skip me saying good morning like I’m not already on my third cuppa and you all saying it back like you’re pleased to be in ties this early in the day.” she continues and a few more soft laughs ripple through the room. Success. “I’ll tell you a bit about myself. I’m from Harrogate in Yorkshire and I moved here to Manchester four years ago. I’m a Libra, I enjoy long walks to the vending machine in the east corridor, and now that I think of it, have made far too many trips there in the two days I’ve been here for it to be considered healthy.” They really like her now, she can tell. “You may be wondering why they’ve hired an eighteen year old fresh out of high school,” she rambles, “But I promise I am qualified and over the age of twenty.”

This is fun. She’s forgotten how good she is. “With that sorted, I believe I have to call the register, so if you’ll just sit tight while I do so.” she pulls open her laptop and opens up the online register while her class exchange words quietly. “Okay, Stuart?”

“Yep.” says a boy in the back row, and it continues like that, her saying names and putting them to a face.

‘Sophie?’ ‘Lachlan?’ … ‘James?’ ‘Andrea?’… ‘Louis?’

“Yeah.” says a boy, and Iris looks up to meet his eyes just like she has for everyone else.

Oh. _Oh_. Well, shit.

He’s…he’s…he’s fucking gorgeous, that’s what. Iris never knew that a seventeen year old could have cheekbones as heavenly as that, in fact she’s considering doing a background check on him to make sure he really is that age. His eyes are an ethereal icy blue, his lips are thin and his hair is a beautiful mess of dark brown, cascading over his forehead in a swoopy fringe. Iris’ thoughts briefly turn to what it would be like to run her hands through that hair while it’s between her thighs, and then she knows she has to stop herself.

She’s a professional, goddammit. She’s a qualified teacher; an adult. This…this is very, very bad.

She hasn’t even realised how she’s paused the register to stare at him for an extra two seconds or so. He’s turned to his friend by this time, who whispers something to him to make him laugh. Louis’ eyes crinkle as he laughs softly, which, wow, nope, and then he looks back at Iris, who’s considering transferring schools.

She shakes out of it quickly, knowing that she probably wasn’t fast enough to make it out of that one, and continues “Uh, Stanley?”

As she makes her way through the last five names she simply cannot stop thinking about Louis, because there’s no way a high school student can look as hot as that. Maybe he’s not real. Maybe he’s not a student; it’s just a test that the school has put on her to make sure she isn’t the type to start sexual relationships with students who are dangerously attractive. She must resist him, if that’s the case. Look at him, with his cute button nose and infectious smile. He’s nothing but an expertly crafted trap.

“So, Literature!” Iris starts to rid the thoughts out of her dirty mind, clapping her hands together to gain their attention “If you don’t know what I mean by that word, then I suggest you leave this classroom. All of you would’ve taken this subject last year, if I’m not mistaken, so let’s get to it. Put your hand up if you _didn’t_ read the text you were assigned over the holidays.”

There’s stillness at first, and then one hand slowly rises. Louis’.

And fuck, Iris was hoping that he cared for this subject, that he was good at it so she could take him out of class and they could read Dickens together and have intellectual conversations about the world of novelists and poets and maybe, even maybe, have him recite Shakespeare’s 18th sonnet while he fucks her.

“Uh, what’s your name again, L—“ she  pretends she isn’t certain of his name so she doesn’t seem creepy.

“—Louis.” he finishes for her, and god, his voice is spectacular. And now that she has it replying in her head continuously, she realises that it is in fact a Yorkshire accent like her own. It’s high-pitched, strong and probably shouldn’t be attractive, but to Iris it sounds like home, reminds her of the rich, unique landscape and the taste of Yorkshire tea.

“Yes, Louis, uh, hi.” _Idiot_ “Even though I hate to be _that_ teacher, what’s your excuse?”

“My dog ate it.” he replies solemnly. Iris is about to have a fit, and she’s not sure if it’ll be one of hysterical laughter or serious, serious tears. A few of the kids around him laugh at his awful attempt, and Iris wants to join in, but.

“Ha.” she says sarcastically “No really, why didn’t you read it? You can just say you couldn’t be bothered. I’ll even admit I was guilty for that when I was in high school.”

“No, really,” Louis continues, his eyes widening in sincerity “My dog actually ate it. I didn’t think you would believe me so I bought in proof, look.” he says, beckoning Iris over before filing though his mound of stuff at the top of his desk. Iris was happy with remaining at a safe distance from him, a distance which ensured that it wasn’t possible for her to lurch forward and suck his dick if there were any sudden urges, but okay.

Iris reaches his desk just in time for him to present to her a photograph of a mixed breed dog chewing on a book covered in slobber. Iris wants to laugh, she really does, but she’s not sure if she’d be laughing with him or at herself.

Who is this boy?

Only because she can’t contain it, she does allow a giggle to escape. She almost blushes from realising how flirtatious the little noise she made sounded, but no one in the room seems to have noticed as they’re all occupied with laughs of their own. Except maybe Louis, as he’s giving a satisfied grin. But then again, probably not. He could just be pleased because he’d amused the whole class, not because he’d just made his new Literature teacher develop a big dumb crush on him. Who really knows?

When Iris had initially caught sight of Louis, she’d expected him to be one of those hot jerks who’s broken enough hearts for all the girls to stay clear of him, but now he’s proving to be a cute little dork with a stupid sense of humour, and it’s just Iris’ luck that those are the exact things which attract her to a guy in the first place.

“Okay, uh, so obviously you’re going to have to catch up, so I’d like for you to see me after class, if that’s okay.” she says, and it’s definitely _not_ because she wants to be alone with him, she really does care about him passing this class. _Really._

“Oh, yeah, fine.” Louis says like it’s obvious, and he can’t hide the grin that creeps onto his lips as Iris walks back up to the front of the room.

 _Calm down,_ Iris tells herself, _he’s probably just smiling because he actually does care about this subject and is glad that you’re going to help him through it, not because he’s happy to spend time with you alone._

“So, _Antony and Cleopatra_ ,” she says once the laughter has died down, beginning to pace in front of the whiteboard. She’s still smiling, though, and she’s trying to brush it off as leftover amusement from the recent episode, rather than her thinking of the shameless abundance of things she’d let Louis do to her. “Just for starters, who enjoyed it?”

Responses vary as she pans around the room; some people nod, some just dig their chins further in to their supporting palms.

The introductory lesson continues for the rest of the period, in which they discuss the play and share their opinions. Iris finishes the class off by writing up all the semester’s assessment work so the kids have an idea what to expect, and then it’s over.

The kids gather their books and file out the door in a casual fashion, all except one. Iris had been so distracted by rambling on about Antony and Cleopatra that she’d almost forgotten.

Louis is sat on that same desk in the back row, his burgundy jumper hanging loosely over his small body. He’s smiling at her sheepishly, eyeing her every move as she rubs the white board clean.

“You’re very lucky,” she starts once she hears the click of the door which signifies they’re alone “that I was nice enough to put together a catch-up sheet for anyone who thought they could skip doing the holiday work without any dramas.”

She looks back at him, thinking that her tone would’ve sufficiently taken him to a state of embarrassment — and it’s certainly _not_ because she’s imagining how cute he would be with pink cheeks. But he’s still smiling at her, and to be frank, it’s starting to become harder to deal with the longer he keeps it up.

She fumbles around in her folder for a few moments before returning with a sheet of notes. “Here,” she says, placing it in front of him “This outlines the basic plot, tells you which pages and scenes you have to read for certain tasks and also has some major character analyses. Give it a read tonight and answer some of the questions I’ve put at the end. It should have you covered for the Unit.” she finishes with a smile, and _almost_ reaches he hand forward to ruffle his hair.

“Thank you, Miss Blackstone.” he says, running his fingers over the sheet and already beginning to read what’s there. Maybe Iris was wrong, maybe he does care about this subject.

“Please, it’s Iris.” she corrects. _Only to you,_ she feels like saying.

“Then, thank you, Iris.” he finishes, standing up and gathering his books in his arms. God, the way he says her name has got her growing weak at the knees. She can only imagine what it would be like for him to moan it.

“You’re very welcome. See you in class tomorrow!” she calls after him, while watching him pad towards the door (he has a very nice bum, might she note.)

She feels like smacking herself, numerous times too. Not just because she, like the creep she is, spent a good five seconds admiring his arse, but because of everything. She’s … she’s having sexual fantasies about a student she only met an hour ago. This is one sticky situation, one that four years of university couldn’t prepare her for. God, she needs something to distract her, and fast.

There’s nothing available to steal her attention, so instead she settles for thinking about how her first class rates.

It was … better than she expected, but worse at the same time. Well, she likes the pool of kids she’s stuck with this year, that’s for sure. They’re engaged, willing students and most of them have a passion for reading, but at the same time they’re loud and up for a joke when the opportunity rises. It’s like the class was crafted with her specifically in mind. But then there’s Louis, and Iris isn’t sure how she feels about that.

In a sense, it’s good. She can bear witness to all his future jokes, can gaze at his scientifically perfect face for a few seconds without it coming off as plain weird. But at the same time, it’s frustrating. There are urges already starting to form in the depths of her bones, needs which require fulfilling. And Louis would never think of her like that, would never view her more than merely his teacher, the one designed to give him his education. Iris can’t help but want to give him a little more than that.

It’s stupid and it’s, well it’s against the law, that is, but she can’t barricade the filthy thoughts from seeping into her mind, can’t stop herself from dreaming of illegal things. It’s only her first proper year as a teacher, for crying out loud. Surely the universe should be kind enough to thrust this problem at her once she’s got enough experience under her belt, but of course not. When is the universe ever kind?

In her free period she finishes off her notes regarding the text for her Year 11 English class and finds herself with nothing to do. Dangerous, indeed.

Because she knows she’s going to end up doing it eventually, she decides to get the deed over and done with. She boots up her laptop and logs onto the school system, glancing around to make sure nobody has taken a sudden interest to watching her every move. She selects her Lit class and scrolls down until she finds the name she’s looking for, and just the fact that she has the authority to access his records should be enough to make her stop, but her hands won’t quit moving.

She reaches ‘Louis Tomlinson’ and clicks the mouse without hesitation, which should probably frighten her.

_Ah, yes, Louis Tomlinson. Born on the 24 th of December. An early Christmas present to the world, perhaps. He’ll be eighteen in four months. Interesting. _

She pauses. No, no, no, she _really_ shouldn’t be doing this. She’s taking advantage of her access rights, using it for her own personal and childish purposes. If she’s caught, she’s dead. So she closes the tab and shuts her computer mere seconds before the bell alerts her that second period is over.

* * *

 

Her Year 11 English class is decent. It’s a compulsory subject, so naturally she was always going to end up with a few language-unappreciative students, but they’re not too bad. At least it doesn’t contain an abnormally beautiful male student who’s destined to get her fired.

After class she weaves her way back to the social staff room and fetches her lunch of leftover pasta salad. It’s not particularly appetising to her at this moment of time when she thinks of all the things she _could_ be eating, but she hasn’t swooped low enough to resort to stealing another teacher’s lunch. That’s just plain rude.

She sits at a table with a French teacher and a P.E teacher, makes light conversation with them and tries to force down any sarcastic, witty and snappy comments which threaten to escape her.

It’s exhausting, really, having to hold back from being her usual self in a bid to appear professional, so by the time she’s due for yard duty she almost considers protesting against it. But, because she’s prone to following orders from a principle with far too much authority, she complies, standing out in the yard like an awkward stick dressed in the latest fashions from Topshop. She’s appointed in the junior precinct, which only makes matters worse, but she’s by the canteen where a few senior students are stopping by for their lunch, so she at least holds some hope within her.

She’s been there ten minutes and so far all she’s had to do is walk around in circles and lightly tell a Year 9 off for, quite literally, throwing his bottle of cola across the yard and successfully drenching a group of Year 7 girls. Schools have just gotten worse, it seems.

But then, she’s to somewhat degree saved when she catches sight of Louis nearing the canteen with his friends. It sounds strange, but he somehow looks better when he’s out of the classroom, better when he’s all casual and having a laugh. His smile is significantly brighter and he walks in this slow, even seductive manner as if he owns the place. And Iris is trying, _trying_ not to look but her eyes aren’t interested in following orders, so she finds herself helplessly watching him purchase a sausage roll and a can of lemonade.

She has this unsettled urge she just can’t describe whenever she sees him. It’s … it’s not always a sexual need, but something more. She wants to be his friend, wants to know him. She wants to know what his favourite season is and if he prefers Radio 1 or Capital FM and what his face looks like when he’s really, _really_ happy and what’s the one thing he can’t live without and too many more details of him which would take days to name. She wants to know so much about that she feels a bit like she’s been hit by a bus. She can’t fathom her thoughts or conduct a single movement without looking like a twat when he’s on her mind, and it’s clear to her that there is definitely, definitely a problem.

It’s also clear to her that this isn’t natural. The last time she checked, stuff like this didn’t exist. She only met him two hours ago, for god’s sake. It’s … it’s not fair, that’s what.

 

* * *

 

Iris is bought back to the safety of her own flat at around five. She’s greeted by a hungry Florence who won’t rest in persisting for Iris to feed her.

“Okay, okay.” she mutters, slipping past the demanding feline “I’ll feed you in a sec.” she says while dropping all that’s in her grasp carelessly on her sofa. There are more important matters to be addressed.

She proceeds to her bedroom, Florence trailing hopefully behind her, and turns around once she’s past the threshold “No, stay out here, Flo.” she pleads tiredly, not in the mood to have her pet follow her around when she’s this worked up.

Florence lets out a questioning meow before obliging, padding off as if she knows exactly what’s going through her owner’s head. Iris sighs in relief before locking the door behind her and turning to face the room.

It’s the same as it always is; messy and rodent-attracting, but at the same time feminine, which really shouldn’t work as an equation. It feels strange that it’s precisely how she left it this morning, because so much in her life changed today that she feels like she should just be coming home to further surprises.

She takes her place on the bed, lies down, and gets to work. Her hand slips underneath her skirt, tights and panties all in one go and she lets it travel down to the place she needs it. She closes her eyes and begins rubbing and stroking with such intent. In her head she imagines that the two fingers she has circling over her clit is Louis’ tongue. She envisions that mess of brown hair of his falling against her thighs, laden with sweat as he runs his free hand up her thigh and over her sides to ease the tension there.

One, two, three more strokes and she’s there, her toes curling as she shamelessly moans out his name.

Once the remnants of her orgasm are well and truly gone, the stupidity of what she’s just done settles around her. She turns over so her face is pressed into a pillow and groans into the soft material, defeated and not in the mood to interact with anything vaguely resembling civilisation for the next eighty years.

She feels like she should be an exhibit at a zoo. ‘And here we see the emotionally unstable English teacher who’s on the verge of a crisis after realising that she’s just masturbated to one of her own students.’

She buries herself deep under the covers and thinks, _I am so fucked._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support I've had already! It means a ton! 
> 
> This chapter will definitely be edited in the future. Right now it's a bit of a mess but I wanted to post it so ... enjoy, I guess?

By the time she’s pulling up into the staff car park, adorning enough make-up for England so she can hide the dark circles resting below her eyes, Iris is sure a part of her soul died last night.

After last night’s predicament, she’d poured herself a much needed glass of that aforementioned merlot and settled on the couch with the latest Game Of Thrones, the severity of what she’d just done lingering in the air surrounding her like suffocating perfume. She’s … she’s definitely going to prison. No doubt about it. She may as well begin working out arrangements for who’s going to take care of Florence and replace her at work.

This morning she’d taken extra care in choosing an outfit, if that were possible. Sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt were completely out of the question, no matter how comfortably they hugged her skin, because now she had someone to impress. Year 12 Literature runs last period, and she knows that she’ll probably throw up if Louis sees her in an outfit which reads ‘nobody talk to me for I have given up’.

She didn’t want to be finicky over her clothing choices, but it felt as if she physically and mental needed to. If she could’ve stopped herself, she would’ve, but her heart has a disgruntling tendency to disagree with her head. She’d stood at the doors of her wardrobe, wondering if turning up in a cocktail dress would be the equivalent to throwing every last morsel of her dignity down the drain or not. _Could I risk it with a mini skirt or would that just be pushing it? Paired with that lacy pair of tights, maybe? A low-cut blouse?_

In the end she’d gone with a charcoal crop tee which, while meeting the professional dress code regulations, still managed to expose the portion of skin covering her collarbones. To hide the stretch of stomach it would otherwise show she picked a loosely pleated, high waisted burgundy skirt, and finished with her signature tights and a grey parka.

She’d chosen an outfit with a purposely low-cut neck and short skirt for reasons she’s embarrassed to admit now. She’d wanted for Louis to look at her a different way during today’s class, for him to view her as the ‘hot new teacher’ (yes, she really is that sad). The only dilemma is, while Iris may be considered pretty, she isn’t hot. There’s a difference, you see. Iris is small, delicate and wears cute clothes with peter pan collars — you immediately feel the need to protect her upon first sight. She’s commonly described as cute and dainty and soft. And a hot person tends to look dangerous, like they were made to break your heart — Iris looks like she’d try to punch you in the arm but you wouldn’t feel a thing. You really want to fuck a hot person, but you really want to snuggle Iris, and that’s the difference.

Iris’ problem is that it’s going to look as if she’s trying too hard, appear as if she’s selling an arm and a leg just to get people, or a specific person, to notice her. That’s always been her flaw; she can never execute these things effortlessly. She always stands out like a sore thumb, so she wonders why she even bothers trying anymore.

But she so badly wants Louis to look at her in her lacy tights and for a bulge to grow in his pants, and she knows that no matter how many times she can slyly push her boobs together with her elbows when she’s leaning over his desk to help him or arch her back to thrust her arse up into the air like she’s posing for a pin up, will he ever think of her in a sexual way. She wants that, though. All she wants is to see him all flustered with coloured cheeks; desperately trying to hide a boner, because that’s … that’s legal, right? Technically. She hasn’t touched him inappropriately or spoke to him with suggestive intentions, no matter how much she wants to. Hell, it would be his own damn fault if he got aroused, that is if he remains oblivious to the fact that Iris was trying purposely to lure him into that needy state  — and also remains oblivious to the fact that Iris will probably have a wank to the sight of his erect cock later.

If … if no one finds out about this little harmless, seemingly unintentional teasing then it’s safe, right? No laws broken. Good.

But now, as she sits in the staff car park at seven thirty in the morning, she wishes she’d thrown the whole ‘Operation: Let’s try to make one of my students get a boner’ down the drain as soon as her stupid mind had its first sparks of inspiration for it.

Her forehead is repeatedly hitting the height of the steering wheel as she sits in a punishing silence, refusing to give a fuck if any other staff members can see her through the windows. Maybe she should’ve called in sick, or transferred schools the second she caught first glance at Louis Fucking Tomlinson. Maybe that would’ve been easier.

She’s bidding to gather the courage to walk inside, but she just physically can’t do it; her legs have decided to fix themselves to the floor, apparently. She’s constantly asking herself why she’s such a dumb little shit, why she’d even considered continuing to teach this Year 12 class instead of running away as far as possible.

After nine long minutes, she’s out and walking towards the admin building. Her confidence is wrecked and her pride has been tossed carelessly to the floor, but this is her job; her only source of income. A dumb crush on a boy with god-like cheekbones and feathery brown hair isn’t going to distract her from behaving like a mature adult. Okay, maybe it will, but it won’t stop her from bringing home her weekly salary, for sure.

She has a free period first thing, but then classes the rest of the day. But the good news is she hasn’t any lunchtime duties to attend to, so she’s free to coop herself up in a toilet cubical and cry over the fact that Louis isn’t just that little bit older.

The first vacant hour passes in a blur of lesson plans and organising her marking book. All she remembers is writing out the names of her Lit class in one of the blank lists provided and actually having to stop at Louis’ name because she felt like she was going to be sick.

She had an idiot idea for one fleeting moment to use one of the columns as a joke to grade each student’s physical attractiveness and give everyone a ‘C’ with the exception of Louis as an ‘A++++++’, but that would not only be childish, but also enhance the fact that she likes him, put it on paper and make it real when all she wants is for it to end.

Her second period is her Year 11 History class, in which she introduces herself, the topic, conducts a small pop quiz to see what they already know about Nazi Germany and even gets as far as starting the first chapter of the textbook. Her class is great, and by the time she’s weaving her way through the corridors to Advanced English, folders in hand, she can’t wipe off that slight twinge of a smile.

She likes the hands-on, practical side of teaching, the side where she’s up the front and talking, every pair of eyes reacting to what she has to say. She lives for that moment when she’s explaining a concept and finally everyone gives that little smile and their eyes brighten because everything suddenly really, _really_ makes sense to them. Yes, she was a bit pissed when she thought of all the marking and planning she’d have to do this year, but really, Iris loves teaching. Loves it.

As soon as she walks into her Year 10 class she experiences a feeling in her gut which reassures her that it’s a good group of kids, and by the time the lesson is over she finds her instincts proved correct. They’re smart, these ones, willing to learn and be challenged. Iris loves them so much that she didn’t even address the fact that a girl in the middle row wore obvious eye makeup, let alone dob her in. She’s pleased with the luck which has been bestowed upon her to enable her to inherit the school’s most fun and interesting classes. She may even start wearing bright yellow attire matched with a permanent expression of glee.

But then, as her much appreciated lunch comes to an unfortunate close, she remembers the blue-eyed boy who will most likely be the cause of her resignation, and her heart starts hyperventilating. Really. How’s this going to go if she keeps this up all year? Surely she can’t live with this painful burden for a full twelve months. There must be some antidote for the fluffy and smite things she’s feeling.

When she arrives she does her best to avoid all eye contact with Louis, making a pact with herself that if she does she’ll be punished by ten push ups. But as soon as she turns away from the notes she’s writing on the board her gaze immediately finds him, like a magnet of some sort. He’s wearing his school jumper loosely over his crinkly shirt, just like yesterday, and his hair seems to have grown shaggier and more rugged than usual, and that’s certainly not helping.

It becomes difficult to talk about the book whilst maintaining eye-contact with him, because if she’s not careful she’ll start absentmindedly saying what she’s thinking  — and what she’s thinking is direct dialogue aimed at Louis which is too filthy to repeat out loud. When she almost says “And so Antony grapples between his love for Cleopatra and his duties to— _I want you to hold my mouth at your crotch and let me suck your cock until I’m gagging as your warm cum trickles down my lips._ ” She knows it’s time to tear her eyes away towards some other students.

She didn’t think she could do it, but she discovers herself conducting the class like it was any other. Words are falling out of her moth effortlessly and the kids in front of her are actually understanding and processing them easily. Maybe she’d underestimated herself — she is in fact multitasking right now by managing to teach a class while simultaneously fantasising about Louis throwing her over the desk and fucking her hard and deep into the wooden surface —, maybe she’s more capable than she thought.

Once she’s set some analytical questions for the act she begins to stride around the room to check they’re all on track. She wanders around tables, peers over shoulders and offers help where needed. When Louis’ hand shoots up she almost has a seizure.

“What can I do for you?” She asks him once she’s approached his desk, her voice altering into something a tad seductive without her giving any form of consent. Fuck. Her eyes nearly widen in shock.

“Uh,” he stammers lightly, and Iris is almost sure it’s because her tone has made him nervous. “Just with question three. ‘M a bit stuck. Could you just, uh, clarify it for me?”

Iris complies, explaining how to answer the question enough for Louis to thank her and resume writing again. Just as Iris is about to tend to a different student she catches Louis’ gaze lift for one fleeting moment and land at a place she’s pleased with; her chest. It lingers there for less than a second and Iris wants to cry because he’s trying to be subtle but he just looks so incredibly obvious. She wants to scream that there’s nothing for him to be ashamed of, that he can stare at her boobs all he likes. In fact she mentally encourages him to touch them, to squeeze them, pinch them or even nip at them, because god does she want it.

It must be the high of having him non-verbally express his apparent attraction to her body which has her tempted to leap into the air, but then again it could be many things; It could be the fact that she’s had no fatal mishaps in the class so far, or that Louis’ seemingly made an even larger effort towards his appearance than yesterday, offering a delicious treat for Iris’ eyes to devour. But yeah, it’s probably the first one.

She … she can’t believe it. Louis was honestly admiring her boobs. He looked at her chest and … and liked what he saw, gathering from the way he’s trying to force back a smile, blissfully unaware that Iris is still watching him as she makes her way towards a girl at the front.

Iris can barely concentrate as she begins to help the girl, Bronte, answer question five (well at least she thinks that’s the question she’s stuck on), and when she’s finally done she retreats back to her desk and pulls her gaze back to her laptop screen. But there’s no point, really, as she’d rather peek at a deeply focused and concentrating Louis from behind her laptop than type up a pop quiz for her Year 10s. And she finds herself doing just that, obviously.

They’re timed stares, placed with a good five minutes between to lessen the chance of being caught. But Iris’ heart still races every time she lifts her eyes at the possibility of Louis looking up from his paper and finding her gaze. Adrenaline is pulsing through her and she feels younger than ever, which really says something about the enrichment and overall interestingness of the life she leads. 

She’s told herself that that’s enough; no more staring in these last ten minutes. A staring detox. But of course, as soon as she can blink her eyes are on Louis again, watching the way his hand moves across the paper and how he lightly mouths his answer as he writes it.

She’s so entranced by it, so fascinated by the simplest thing, that it doesn’t even register that he’s dropped his pen for a brief hand stretch. His eyes tear away from the sheet in front of him and land…

Right on Iris. Christ.

She’s just thankful that the gods above have allowed her expression to remain neutral for this sudden mutual stare, that she was lucky enough to not adorn a look which reads ‘I have a big dumb crush on you’, because then she’d be in trouble.

Iris wants to cover her face immediately, wants to smash through the classroom window and flee the school, but her body maintains a still statue. She has a plan to cover this up, to make it look less bad than it is by gently moving her eyes up to the clock above Louis’ head and praying that he’d believe she was merely checking the time, not immaturely gawking at him, but she physically can’t. Certainly not when Louis’ beautiful, _beautiful_ blue eyes are fixed on her like that.

She wants to speak, wants to move, wants to do something, but instead there’s nothing. Just aching nothingness as realisation settles behind Louis’ eyes.

And then the bastard actually smiles. Not a sexy, melt-your-panties-off kind of smirk, but a cute, lopsided and bashful smile which warms Iris’ heart enough to last her all winter. His eyes remain glued to her for a second longer before he coyly ducks his head and tries to get back to work, a blush pink settling on his soft cheeks.

And because she can’t resist, Iris smiles too before returning to her planning. She doesn’t know if he sees her small gesture or if he ever peeks back at her, but she doesn’t mind. In fact, it’s probably better this way. She’s doing herself a favour because she knows she can’t physically handle any more than this. Enough is enough for one day. First there was the whole chest incident, in which it became clear to Iris that maybe she’s ‘hotter’ than she thought, and that maybe she still has it in her. And now this, this adorable little smile which means _something._ She doesn’t know what yet, but there must be some reasoning behind it. 

Yep, Iris has had a big day.

The bell rings, much to her dismay, and the kids begin rising off her seats and gathering their books. Iris almost leaps into the air to hysterically cry for them to stop, because surely that wasn’t an hour, was it? But a few have already started exiting the room so there really isn’t much she can do but gather her papers and follow after them.

The room empties fairly quickly since the prospect of going home is collectively desired by everyone. Iris hastily spins around to rub off all the notes she’d written on the board, and then she hears it.

“Uh, Mi- Iris?”

She could pick out that high, strongly accented voice from anywhere. As she said before, she’s had enough emotional highs for the today, so would he be so kind as to let her be.

“Yes, Louis?” she asks, her eyes squeezing together with her back still turned to him.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks, and Iris can basically see the slight cock of his head, the way his hands are digging deeper into his pockets.

 _No, you can’t talk to me,_ she feels like saying, _because it’s probably going to be about my stupid staring and your dumb smile and you’re going to make me answer stuff which I would much rather leave a mystery to you, so please run along and never ask to speak to me privately again._

“Sure.” is what she says; twirling so she’s granted a clear view of his gorgeous face.  His palms are pressing into the edge of the table he’s slouched against and he’s watching Iris carefully. “Just give me a sec.” she adds and he nods.

By the time Iris is finished rubbing every spec of marker off the board and done with organising the papers on her desk (she may have stalled so she could conduct a brief inward pep talk), Louis has sat down behind a desk in the front row, and is tapping his fingers rhythmically on the wooden surface while he waits patiently and willingly.

“So what’s up?” she asks finally, dragging a chair to the opposite end of the table and leaning forward on her cupped palms. She’s close, probably too close to him, but he doesn’t seem fazed, or to even have noticed. He’s just furrowing his brow in thought, as if having trouble to select the right way to say whatever he has on his mind.

“It’s just with, uh, classes and stuff.” he eventually speaks, but to Iris it just sounds like background noise as she processes just how easy it would be to lean over and kiss Louis with a distance like this. Knowing that she’d look stupid if she didn’t, she decides to tune into what he’s saying instead of envisioning his thin, soft lips crashing down onto hers. So she nods, encouraging him to continue.  “I’ve just— It’s only been two lessons and I’m already feeling like I’m struggling.” he admits, and Iris wants to stroke his hair and reassure him that it’s okay. “It… it happened last year too. I just couldn’t seem to get it.”

And now it’s Iris’ turn to speak, even though she’d love to listen to that comforting accent of his all day. “Why would you choose it as an A-Level if you know you struggle at it?” She questions, tilting her head to the side.

“Because I enjoy Lit. I don’t know, it’s fun, I guess. I just wish I could be better at it, you know?” he explains, and his eyes are on her as he speaks and Iris is trying, _trying_ not to think about how unimaginably crystal clear blue they are up close.

“Louis, can I ask you something?” she starts slowly, attempting to find the best way to phrase this.

“Sure.” he answers effortlessly and leans back a little in his chair, further establishing that he’s nothing but an open book right now.

“Why didn’t you read Antony and Cleopatra over the break, honestly?” she inquires firmly to convey that she wants an answer this time, not a joke. He shifts a little in his chair, readjusts his jumper and purses his lips. Immediately, Iris knows not to expect a straight answer. “I mean,” she adds quickly “You can’t expect to pass if you don’t at least make the effort to complete the homework.”

“That’s… that’s exactly why I almost failed last year, and why I didn’t read the play. I just, I— I hate doing homework and am probably among the biggest procrastinators. And I’m also busy all the time, which doesn’t help. I just can’t fit studying in between football practise and my part-time job and my social life.”

“Hang on,” Iris begins carefully, bidding to excuse the fact that all she got out of that was knowledge that Louis plays football. That’s certainly not helping her remain professional, considering she’s imagining locker room sex with a sweaty Louis. Christ, she’s starting to morph into a horny teenager again. She must seek professional help. “You’re a Year 12, and you’re telling me you still haven’t grasped the basics of time management?”

“Well, you could put it that way, yeah.” he agrees with a sheepish smile which tempts Iris to hit him across the head with a chair leg. Also sudden violent urges, that’s what she needs to discuss with her theoretical psychologist.

“God, Louis…” she groans into her hands, and she knows that as a teacher she’s expected to be understanding and helpful, but she really can’t keep sane at this. She mumbles further incoherent cries of annoyance into her cupped hands, which thankfully obstruct her view of Louis.

He’s…he’s dumb, but also so incredibly cute and Iris doesn’t want to live a day without seeing that idiot face of his.

“And that’s why I came to talk to you.” he perks up enthusiastically, making Iris lower her hands. “To get help.”

“You want me to help you?” she asks in disbelief, and now her hands are completely gone and she’s looking at Louis like he’s just informed her that he’s been admitted to a mental asylum. Well, given that he just asked Iris for help, it probably wouldn’t be entirely pointless if he stayed in one of those for a few weeks.

“Well, yeah.” he replies with a knitted brow, as if it’s obvious and he’s no clue as to why Iris would be so iffy over a seemingly harmless proposition. “I mean, all my other teachers are over the age of forty and have personalities as bland as their dead faces, but you’re kinda cool, Miss.”

She inhales deeply and lifts her eyes to the ceiling above, hoping that something will be written on there to guide her through this dilemma which will most likely end her teaching career. “It’s Iris, remember?” is what she says, though, in an attempt to somewhat lighten the mood with playful banter.

“Right, sorry. ‘Have to write that down or summat.” he jokes it off, and Iris is introduced to the most heavenly, angelic and beautiful sound in the world; Louis’ laugh.

Because it’s impossible to restrain herself, Iris lets slip a small hum of amusement and finds it hard to contort her lips back to a straight line again. And Louis is right in front of her, smiling too as his laugh dies off, and Iris is unsure of she’s breathing or not.

There’s just this comfortable silence clouding over them and they’re grinning at each other like idiots. Iris looks briefly to the floor when it becomes all too much for her fragile heart to handle, but finds her eyes tearing back after a mere second. He’s still beaming like a lunatic and his turquoise Irises are fixed her face, studying it in detail. Iris really doesn’t want to know what he’s seeing right now. And he’s close, so impossibly close, even though the distance between them hasn’t increased for the past five minutes, it suddenly feels like he’s everywhere. Iris considers kissing him, she really does, and that should be her cue to pack her bags and relocate to Argentina, but she stays put and continues to make an utter fool of herself. But it’s okay because Louis is making an utter fool of himself too. They’re being fools together. Partners in fooling.

Surprisingly, it’s Louis who finally breaks the mutual daze of uncalled for stupidity and general giddiness. “So like, just some tutoring outside of school maybe? I can pay you if you’d like.”

“Oh yeah that’s fine.” she agrees at an unnerving speed, the effects of that unexpected trance of happiness still influencing what leaves her mouth. “And don’t worry about costs or anything. I’ll do it for free. The salary of a teacher may be harsh but I care more about you passing this class than a few extra pounds which I’ll probably put towards my Netflix subscription, so.”

He laughs lightly again, and Iris wants to capture that sound and play it whenever she’s sad. “Great, uh, Thursday maybe? After school?” he suggests, lifting himself off his chair and gathering his books. Iris really doesn’t want him to leave.

“Sure, um, in the library, maybe?” she says while mirroring his actions.

“Yeah, maybe.” he says, and there are a lot of maybes being passed around without them really caring because everything feels a bit like a maybe right now. Maybe Louis, in a small, obscure way, kind of does like Iris. Maybe. Well he did indirectly admit that she’s his favourite teacher he has this year, and Iris can’t deny she’s flattered that she was his first choice when seeking help, can’t deny the warmth trickling through every nook and cranny of her body. “I’ll uh, see you there.” he finishes with a smile, standing at the door.

“Yeah,” Iris confirms with a nod and goes back to placing some stray papers back into her folder to announce that the conversation is over. She looks up three seconds later to check if he’s left so she can embark in smashing her head against a wall, but he’s still standing by the door, his mouth agape as if wanting to say something. She gives him an expecting look, inviting him to come out with it because she feels like she needs that sort of confession now, needs that last little sentence to stitch it all into place. But all he does is give a miniscule shake of the head while turning away. He exits the classroom, and Iris yet again, admires his arse, and then it’s silent.

So she’s going to be taking Louis alone after school for private help. Alone. Private.

Yeah, she may as well start cleaning her desk.

* * *

 

Wednesday passed far more quickly than Iris had hoped. It had been a safe, relaxed day full of preparation. Even though she had three classes to teach, none of them were Literature, so it felt a bit like she didn’t even go to work at all.

That night she’d ordered Thai and settled on the couch with torrented Breaking Bad, Florence using her lap as a bed. It had been a good distraction for a little while, but when she woke the following morning she was already reaching for the phone, altering her voice to one of a sick person’s and ready to deliver the most convincing performance of her life.

However she stopped herself the second before she pressed ‘call’. She doesn’t like lying to people. Never has and never will. She despises of it so much that she made a pact with herself to never hide the truth unless it’s to protect a person’s or her own safety or wellbeing. And although faking being sick is a timeless classic which has been executed successfully an uncountable amount of times, Iris physically can’t bring herself to do it. She drops her phone and starts her morning routine, knowing she’s in for one hell of a day.

She dresses in a simple, sleeveless black tunic with a white collar and a parka thrown on top. In the bathroom, although she’d never admit it, she applies a little extra make up to her face. It’s tasteful, though. She doesn’t look like one of those girls you see on ‘Snog, Marry, Avoid’, but her eyeliner game is strong.

Year 11 English runs first period, so when she pulls up at Farleigh Heights, embarrassingly late, she heads straight to Room 37. It’s a tedious and seemingly never ending lesson, considering it’s consisted of kids who can’t pronounce English properly being selected to read to the class by their peers, and that there isn’t an attractive student for her eyes to feast over. But nevertheless she endures it in expert fashion which reassures the students that everything’s perfectly normal, fine, and that their teacher isn’t on the verge of a panic attack. Maybe she should pursue an acting career. That is, if this whole teaching business goes down the drain by the end of today.

Period three marks Year 12 Literature, and Iris almost throws up all over her desk when the bell sounds for it. _It’s not too late to stage a hysterical phone call and pretend that my mother has fallen terribly ill, is it?_

Yes, it is too late, because Iris’ feet are carrying her towards the portable classroom and she’s doing nothing to stop them.

“Sorry I’m late!” she announces upon entering the already filled classroom, silencing whatever bored chatter once occupied the space. “I would improvise an excuse but honestly, I was just being lazy.” she jokes, and it’s half true, really. She didn’t want to go to class so she sat around for an extra three or so minutes.

She spends as much time as possible dithering about at her desk, placing papers here and there, before she finally collects the courage to lift her eyes. He’s in the back row, as usual, and he’s wearing that same stupid smile from two days ago. Right, well. Shit.

“So today we’re going to be starting the first part of the coursework, which is the creative component.” she begins, and now that she’s turned to ‘adept and intellectual’ mode, she can’t reverse back into her ‘imbecile’ setting for a good few minutes. She continues to explain the task with ease, her eyes making contact with everyone in the room whose name doesn’t start with ‘L’ and end with ‘S’. And it’s good, really, the fact that the kids are able to get a stack of work done in the period and minimise their homework load, good that Louis doesn’t call for help once because he knows there will be time for that later.

It ends quicker than she’d expected and everyone scurries off to lunch, including Louis, for once. The whole morning passed fast enough to give her whiplash, and now that it’s lunch, she’s not sure what to do with herself.

Her first thought is to go to the vending machine in the east corridor. It’s been a little safe place for her these past five days; a little bunker with an added supply of chocolate. She’s spent a majority of her lunchtimes there. It’s normal, routine, familiar. But that’s not what Iris is in the mood for now.

 _Fuck it,_ she thinks, _just fuck it._ She needs to get out of this goddamn place.

At the staff room she gathers her keys, phone and wallet, because she’s a teacher and teachers are allowed to leave the school grounds, sometimes even without permission. Yeah, she’s an adult, and adults can … do a lot of things. So she gets in her car and just drives, mindful of the clock on her dashboard so she knows when to turn back. In her time in Manchester she’s done a fair amount of exploring, but not enough for the adventurer within her to be satisfied, so she covers the streets of the industrial-like city with open eyes, ready to jump out of the car at the first thing she labels interesting.

And it’s relaxing, not having to worry about anything other than speed limits and grumpy cashiers at novelty shops. She feels a bit like a uni student again, when she was so spontaneous and welcoming to new experiences. The passenger seat is a growing clutter of bags filled with god knows what; little souvenirs to mark the day she actually relived her life as a student to get her mind off one of her own.

Her stomach grumbles and she remembers that it is in fact lunchtime, and that if she wishes to continue her existence, she better feed herself. She parks her beaten up car on a quaint side street and lands in a pedestrian only zone, bustling with shoppers and passerbys. The first eatery she catches sight of is a bakery, and under these circumstances it will have to suffice. 

On any normal day she would’ve chosen a Cornish pasty, because she’s British and proud of it, but today’s about breaking out of routines, so she leaves the shop carrying a cheese roll. It’s just a miniature baguette kind of thing filled with a slice of gourmet cheese. Not in any form British. A bit French, really. Louis is a French name. Fuck. Even her meal selections are relating back to Louis, and frankly that’s worrying. Maybe she should’ve purchased a Danish or a Swiss roll.

She checks the time briefly and is relieved to discover she still has a good twenty minutes before she must journey back. Planting herself on a provided bench, she eats her roll and spends some much needed time unwinding. She watches the citizens of Manchester, men in coats, women with children, posies of late teenagers armed with skateboards, and wonders if any of them are in the midst of a crisis like her, wonders how she must appear to everyone else.

With the city as her background noise she mulls things over, inwardly debates and gets lost in her thoughts. Her mind travels from questions that have bugged her for years, such as ‘what if rocks are actually soft but they tense up when we touch them?’ and ‘what if the colour red I see isn’t the colour red you see?’

God, she … she really needs to get laid, if this is what she does in her free time.

With a loss of appetite she throws the last quarter of her roll into a nearby rubbish bin and dusts the crumbs off her apparel. If she wants to keep her job she better get a move on, so she locates her car and relies on Google Maps to guide her back.

Her stomach drops upon arrival, so she’s already aware it’s going to take an insane amount of effort to get to the library. The bell sounds shortly after and students begin gushing out of the buildings like they’re burst pipes. Iris just sort of sits there in her car like a useless clump of matter.

Little beats in her heart are encouraging her to go, but her brain is repeating the consequences to her, reminding her that if she slips up an accidently performs something ludicrous, i.e. shamelessly ravishing Louis in front of all the library staff, there’s a prison cell waiting for her.

 _Only_ because she promised to, she finds herself walking up the library steps a good ten minutes after the final bell. It’s perfect, that amount of waiting time, because it could either suggest that she’d almost forgotten, that she doesn’t _really_ care about Louis’ grades as much as she pretended to on Tuesday, or the she was late because she had more important things to do first, because she is the one in authority here, the one being paid. Either way, it will hopefully deceive Louis into thinking that she has no interest in starting an out of school relationship with him. None whatsoever.

When she enters she instantly spots Louis, seated at a faraway table and surrounded by books. He looks as if he’s trying to cram in a ridiculous amount of knowledge before an end of term exam, which isn’t really useful at this point in time, gathering that it’s September. She approaches with caution, careful not to disturb anything. Knowing how weak her self-control is, she feels like she’s walking on a tightrope. One wrong foot and in come the authorities.

“Hi,” she greets, quickly followed by a cough to excuse the crack in her voice.

He looks up and god, yes, Iris could look at that face for the rest of her existence. She wants a picture of it framed and placed in every room of her flat. And c’mon, it’ simply not fair how scruffy his hair is. It’s practically pleading for her to run her hands through it.  “Hey,” he replies with a smile and moves a few items on the table to create some room.

She slides into the chair opposite him and waits, occupying her time by watching his arms work as he relocates most of the books to the carpeted floor. It takes over a minute, and Iris is starting to become restless. Finally, he finishes with a huff.

“You good?” Iris asks, a slight grin playing at her lips.

“Wha— Yeah.” he answers, flashing her a grin of his own while reaching his hands down to readjust the hem of his jumper. Christ.

“Shall we begin then?”

* * *

 

Iris isn’t sure how, but they’ve gone from talking about Shakespeare to discussing which breed of dog would be best to have by your side in a zombie apocalypse.

“You get a Rottweiler because it can tear the zombies to pieces, simple.” Louis argues, falling back into his chair as if the debate is clearly over.

“No, you get something like a Beagle. They’re small and hidden, and they sniff out all the food and can track the areas where zombies have been and—“

 “—What if you get attacked?” he challenges, raising an eyebrow in an attempt to intimidate her. Although they’re in the midst of a civilized argument, Iris is still terribly, terribly fond of him.

“Well, in that case you just have to fight them yourself. But a Beagle would help you survive. Zombies rely on their hearing and I’d imagine a Rottweiler to produce a lot of noise, so you’d be spotted easily.”

“Alright maybe me and my Rottweiler pal would attract a lot of zombies, but at least we’d be able to fight them off.” he shoots back

“A Beagle can bite too!” she protests. She has no idea what she drank which made her suddenly passionate over small hunting dogs, but it’s affecting her.

“Bullshit!—“ Louis starts, but then pauses abruptly. Iris looks into his eyes and what she sees is a gleam of fear.

“S’alright.” she reassures him “You can swear. I’m not an easily offended grandma. I do swear myself, in fact. Quite regularly, too.”

“Oh, uh, good, that’s uh …good. Yeah.” he fumbles out, and Iris is enjoying this a bit too much. “Hey, what’s up with grandmas who are offended by the word ‘dick’ when they have like, eight kids?”

“I know. Just anyone who’s offended by swearing, really. Profanities are just more negatively implied synonyms of words we’re embarrassed to say, and legitimate studies show that we actually release anger when stating them. Honestly, over time they’ve lost all their original meaning and have morphed into expressions of intense emotion, so there isn’t really much to be offended over.” Iris finishes with a huff. She’s wanted to rant about this for years, and if nobody stops her she’ll probably delve into how swears were initially words for the lower class, and how as a society which has eased the discrimination against the poor, we shouldn’t treat those words as if they are, quite literally, lower class. But she’d be rambling on for days, so maybe she should leave it at that.

“I love it when you talk intellectual to me.” Louis jokes, mock seduced and ignorantly setting alarms off in Iris’ head.

Iris fakes a laugh and tries to ignore the high clamour of her heart, the perspiration seeping through her palms. “Which reminds me, we need to get back to work.” she says, jabbing her finger at the neglected paper.

“Right, yeah. Hey, what’s the time?” he asks, continuing to snub the lined sheet, which certainly doesn’t contain an hour’s work when it should.

“Uh, four thirty.” Iris answers, taking a peek at her watch.

“Shit, I have to leave.” he announces, already springing back to life by haphazardly throwing books everywhere. Iris is shocked to say the least at this sudden ending to a tutoring session she frankly was enjoying. All she does is sit there like an awkward stick. “So, uh, this was fun. We got some work done, didn’t we?” Louis says sceptically and pauses before both their gazes find the sheet of paper perched on his desk. They literally accomplished nothing, except maybe establishment that they get on so well, that their personalities mend together perfectly.

Iris starts to shake her head, and the Louis joins in with a laugh and they’re both just a mess of ‘we wasted this entire session but I honestly don’t care’.

“Well,” Iris begins, clearing her throat “We did have quite an interesting conversation about elves and faeries, so that at least counts for something.” she argues.

“Yeah,” Louis chuckles, remembering. His eyes are so bright and full of life and Iris wishes she could relive this day over and over, just for this little part right here.

“So same time next week, I presume? We have to make sure to actually get some work done though.”

“Oh yeah, ‘course. But I don’t think today was completely a waste, I mean, I feel kind of better about you helping me now, you know? More comfortable.” he adds, and Iris was sure she was breathing a minute ago but she can’t confirm that she is now. Louis is comfortable with her.

“Yeah, I get it.” she assures him, because it was like he was reading her mind.

There’s a moment where they’re just staring at each other over the table, a mixture of thoughts passing through them but their faces remaining still. They just … watch each other. Not a word is being said but it’s okay. It’s better this way.

“So, I have a football match on Saturday. It’s the school’s football team, so you won’t look completely out of place,” _Wait, what?_ “And, I was just wondering if you’d like to watch. As like a student-teacher friend sort of thing, well, no fuck, uh, not that I—“

“Yes.” she replies, and the confidence of her answer is so unexpected.

“Great.” Louis says in disbelief, like not even he was prepared for it “It’s on the school’s football pitch and starts at two. I’ll, uh, see you there.”

Then he’s gone, and Iris is left there wondering how she’s going to obey the laws surrounding sexual contact between teachers and students when a sweaty Louis is going to be running about in a football kit, only metres from her.

Blimey.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. Also, Louis is in Year 13 now, not 12. He's closer to graduating this way.

“So I took her back to my flat and fucked her. Simple.” Niall finishes, a smug grin painted on his lips as he leans back in his chair.

Niall has been Iris’ friend for a while — since her first days of university, in fact — and usually by this point she would be questioning his retelling of his wild night out, finding all the loopholes and inconsistencies, but she really doesn’t care right now. In fact, she wasn’t even listening to the story at all.

“Bullshit!” Zara objects, taking Iris’ place for the night “At the start of the story this girl was blonde and busty, and by the end she was a dark-haired Filipino.”

Iris perks up at this remark. She doesn’t remember Niall’s plot holes ever being this obvious, so maybe she should’ve tuned into this one.

Around her the club pulses. Her Mojito is barely touched and its cocktail umbrella is sinking rather depressingly in the glass. Electronic dance music fills the room as the three of them sit on a lounge chair in the corner. Normally by this time on a Friday night, Iris would be drunk off her face, laughing and dancing with her three closest friends, but tonight she’s not in the mood.

Next to her, Niall fumbles for a cover-up, but it’s evident he’s struggling. “Ugh, you got me.” he cries into his hands, earning a satisfied grin from Zara. The two of them proceed to take another swig of their drinks, but Iris just kind of stares at nothing.

Okay she’ll admit it; she can’t get Louis out of her head. Ever since that tutoring session he’s been invading her thoughts like the Romans invaded Britannia. She’d thought that the session in the library would be awkward, that after that weird smile in class on Tuesday and the whole staring at her boobs incident, Louis would be uncomfortable and embarrassed around her. But it was far from it.

Louis had been so funny and bubbly and chatty, and Iris had been mirroring him right back. They just talked for so long about stupid things and only spent about five minutes doing proper work, which just screams unprofessional. However Iris physically couldn’t remain professional with the added knowledge that Louis and her get on so well. They’d clicked instantly and discovered they had so many things in common, including big things like having the same sense of humour, but also little things like both liking the same band ‘Two Door Cinema Club’ and agreeing that pasta is probably the best thing in the world. Through discussions of The English Premier League and Sacha Baron Cohen movies, they found out that they could, maybe, potentially, become friends.

And now Iris is crying because she doesn’t want to leave it at just that. God, she may as well say it — she wants to be his girlfriend. She’s only seven years older than him now, right? And he’ll be eighteen in four months. Maybe if they’d waited until December, or more appropriately, until he graduated to do this whole bonding thing, they could’ve steered it in a romantic direction from day one. But now it’s too fiddly, going from friends to lovers when the other person is your goddamn student. And of course there’s the added fact that Louis probably doesn’t think of her in a romantic way whatsoever.

Earlier in the week, Iris had said to herself that she would be okay just being friends with Louis, how she’d just wanted to know him. But now that she’s had a little taste of what he’s like, now that she knows just how suited they are for each other, she doesn’t want to settle for anything below romance. She’s imagining their theoretical relationship now, and it involves a lot of indie music concerts, takeaway food, sex at midnight and— no, she really mustn’t. It’s torture, what she’s doing to herself; envisioning the kind of relationship she knows Louis and her would have while she’s aware that the chances of it happening are less than zero.

And now, with this swirling in her head, she remembers the football match she promised to attend, and all the weekly tutoring sessions which certify unescapable alone time with Louis. Yeah, it would probably be best if she quit her job.

“Hey, you alright?” Zara whispers to her, breaking her trail of thoughts.

Iris, a little startled by her sudden inclusion in the group’s conversation, replies quickly with “Yeah fine.”

But the look in Zara’s blue eyes tells her she’s not convinced. Iris turns her head to the left and notices Niall’s disappearance.

“Hey where did Niall go?” she asks to steer away from the subject.

“To get more drinks. Now tell me what’s up, you’ve been acting weird all night.” Zara dismisses. Iris should’ve known better, really. She’s known Zara since Year 9, and not once has she dodged one of Zara’s efforts to find out what’s bothering her.

“It— It’s nothing, I—“ Iris starts, shaking her head.

“Obviously it’s something, and you know I’m just going ask questions until I get to the pit of it, so come on.” Zara says, placing her drink on a side table and readjusting her position on the chair.

“No, it’s—“

“How was your first week at work?” Zara asks, and that’s the end of it, basically. Iris immediately drops the act and buries a groan in her hands, practically answering Zara’s question “So it’s a work thing. Okay. Is it a bad school, or…?”

“No,” Iris dismisses instantly “No it’s a great school. Friendly staff, good facilities.”

“Bad classes?” she guesses “You’re actually not as good a teacher as your cocky self thought and parents are already complaining? C’mon, help me out here.”

“My classes are everything I’d hoped for, and I’m undoubtedly an amazing teacher, you twat, so no.” Iris says before taking a quick peek at Niall’s position in the line at the bar. He won’t be back for a few minutes by the looks of it, so she continues “It’s um, it’s a student.” Iris admits before swallowing thickly. It takes effort to say that word, to remind herself that Louis is illegal.

“A student? You mean a student like Joseph Benton from Biology? The kind who’s so uncooperative and misbehaved that they send teachers into mental hospitals?” Zara prompts.

“No, not like that. Worse, I’d say.” Iris answers, already reaching for her drink. She downs half of what’s there in one gulp and relishes the way it burns her throat.

“Well?” Zara continues, evidently not planning to let it go anytime soon.

“He’s… he’s really, really hot, okay?” Iris cries, the alcohol already starting to take an effect on her, and then buries her head in her hands again.

“Oh no.” Zara coos in understanding, extending a hand forward to rub soothingly over Iris’ trembling back. “What’s his name?”

Because Zara is a bisexual who’s had enough relationships to feed Africa, she has something to say about every name. Never trust a Ryan. If you find a Hannah, always keep her close and don’t let her go no matter what. An Ellie will break your heart slowly and painfully without remorse. Zara’s basically a walking horoscope.

“Louis.” Iris chokes out, and it seems to make Zara pity her even more. Even though Iris never takes this advice on board, she doesn’t interpret it as a good sign.

“Oh, Christ no. How do you spell it?” Zara asks in woe, her eyes turning sad and somehow regretful, as if she’s remembering her bad experience with a boy of the same name.

“L-O-U-I-S” Iris replies, looking to the ground miserably.

“God no. Not a Louis. He’s probably French, right? Probably doesn’t even follow the school dress code and wears leather jackets every day, but the teachers have given up on trying to stop him. Probably leaves the school grounds every lunchtime to have a smoke behind some seedy building. Probably has the entire female student body crushing on him but he hasn’t dated anyone because he has some mysterious girlfriend back in France—“

“No, he’s not like that at all.” Iris intervenes like she’s known the boy for years “He has the biggest Yorkshire accent I’ve ever heard and he’s like, really into English Premier League, and he just walks around with his mates at lunchtimes and goes off to the canteen like any other student.”

“Oh, well in that case he’s a standard twat.” Zara decides bluntly and Iris tries to ignore the anger heavy in her throat. Since when did she become so protective over him?

“He’s not a twat!” Iris near shouts, and that should be the cue to shut up for the rest of her life, but “He’s funny and nice and _ridiculously attractive,_ and we like the same bands, and—“

“You like the same bands? So you’ve already had a conversation with him not involving school work?” Zara gathers, tucking a strand of her honey blonde hair behind her ear and blinking at Iris like she’s lost track.

“Yeah well, because he’s a bit dumb I’ve started taking him for tutoring every Thursday — his idea, not mine — and yesterday we just ended up talking about everything but the Shakespeare play we’re studying. And it just makes it so hard now, Zara, because I know how well we get along together but we could never work.” Iris rambles sadly

“Who could never work?” Niall inquires upon his return, handing out drinks to everyone.

“Oh,” Zara looks to Iris, her face saying it all. She’s asking her for permission to tell Niall. Iris’ shake her head inconspicuously. As much as she loves Niall, allowing him to the private details of her love life has never ended well in the past “We were just talking about this guy Iris works with. Another new teacher.” Zara lies easily, reaching for her drink.

“And you two wouldn’t work because…?” Niall directs this question towards Iris, quirking up an eyebrow.

“He’s from India, and only allowed to marry within the culture.” Iris improvises quickly “Plus he’s like, really serious about it. So no suggestions of quick one night stands please. Not only would that be wrong, but he’s my _colleague_.” ( _student_ )

Niall accepts this explanation and goes for another sip of his drink “Indian girls, though. Always so stubborn to talk to ya.” he shakes his head.

“I don’t think it’s the Indian girls, you racist fuck. I think it’s you.” Zara deadpans while tending to her nails.

“Yeah, Yeah —“ Niall begins dismissing “Hey, whoa.” he breaths, now fixed on something. Zara and Iris both turn their heads to the area where Niall’s gaze rests and find, unsurprisingly, a blonde beauty who’s just entered the club “I’ll either be back soon, or I won’t be back at all.” he informs them before lifting himself off the seat and advancing towards her, already preparing some of his ‘suave’ moves.

“But anyway,” Iris continues dramatically, choosing to ignore Niall’s brief interruption “He’s invited me to his football game tomorrow and I can’t show up by myself, Zar.” she whines, trying to make Zara feel as sympathetic as possible so maybe she might consider agreeing to the proposition hidden behind her statement. She tugs on Zara’s shoulder, the alcohol starting to take its full affect now, and offers her the most pleading eyes she can muster.

“Hang on, what?” Zara asks, shaking her off “He invited you to his football match?”

“Yeah, why?” Iris daftly questions with a tilt of her head, confused.

“That’s kind of big, Iris. Students just don’t ask any old teacher to attend their football match. Isn’t that like, a private thing? Out of school Saturday morning sport? Are you even allowed to loiter around the leisure centre, just watching dozens of illegal teenage boys run up and down the field?” Zara objects.

“It’s the school team.” Iris shrugs “I won’t look entirely out of place.”

“Okay, but that’s still— He, he asked _you,_ his teacher, to attend his match?” Zara asks again, still unable to fathom such a thing. “Are you sure he doesn’t—“

“No. Well, I don’t know. I mean, remember Luke?” She asks, referring to a boy she once taught at Kingsley Grammar.

Luke Braylin was a pupil in the Year 11 English class she covered for. Before starting, she’d received an email from an ill Mrs Godwin, the teacher she was replacing, warning her about this particular student’s behaviour and outlining the special rules to enforce when it came to him. Gathering the fact he was a Year 11, and, by now, naturally should’ve matured enough to realise it isn’t exactly wise to blatantly disrupt the class on a regular basis, Iris had expected the boy to be exceedingly problematic. And yeah, on her first morning, before she’d walked out the front of the classroom, she could easily identify him from the way he was launching paper planes from one end of the room to the other.

But then, Luke had finally looked up at his new teacher. His hand paused and his mouth flew open just slightly. Iris immediately knew.

Over the next few weeks, Iris found his behaviour much less severe than what Mrs Godwin had cautioned. He was still a little reluctant to do the set work, but Iris presumed it as a way to gain her attention; to ensure that she’d notice and then, hopefully, speak to him privately about it. More often than not he’d stay back after class to ask her questions which barely counted as valid, and it was evident he was biding to change his behaviour for her.

It was so glaringly obvious that he had a crush on her, and Iris was highly aware of that. But the attraction was never mutual. She’d known that some of the girls in the year level liked him, and she could see why; she’s not blind. But Luke, thankfully wasn’t her type. And the problem was easily fixable by one brief talk with Luke about the consequences of teacher/student relationships — something she learned he’d been keen to partake in after one traumatic meeting before school.

Louis is different. Firstly, she really can’t tell if he likes her in that way, which is probably lucky, as she could choose to ignore it if she wanted to. It’s all just grey area right now, a cluster of mixed feelings and uncertainty which, for some stupid reason, is bugging Iris more than it should. She needs a straight answer here, but she can’t exactly ask Louis, can she. Well, if she did, and his answer was no, then that would trigger for a persistent cloud of unspoken awkwardness to form over their heads and remain present for the rest of their encounters. And Iris can’t live with that. But if his answer was yes, well, what then? Would she assure him that feelings were mutual? (Maybe). Would she persuade him to stop before his crush developed any further? (That would be sensible, but probably not.) Or would she lurch herself forward and kiss the life out of him? (Most likely).

But Louis doesn’t mirror her feelings back, does he? No, surely not. _Surely._ Come on. Why would he like his fucking teacher? He’s no Luke Braylin. He may be a little dumb at times, but not enough to think a relationship with her would be a good idea. So no, he doesn't like her.

Really though, that’s _still_ not verified. She can only be sure once she’s asked him, and that’s never going to happen, so.

“Yeah, he was just annoying wasn’t he?” Zara now says, mentally recalling the boy Iris used to complain about last year.

“I _knew_ he liked me. But with Louis, I just … don’t. I can’t read him. I don’t know what his feelings are at all.” Iris mutters, shaking her head.

“He just invited you to his football match though. Isn’t that a clue?” Zara objects, knitting her brow.

“I don’t know. I mean, the other day I caught him staring at my boobs but that doesn’t mean anything, really.” Iris decides.

“Oh, Iris—“ Zara starts, talking to her as if she’s only young and innocent.

“And why are we talking about this?! It’s not like we’re going to date or anything.” Iris shouts, a bit too loud.

“What year is he in?”

“Thirteen.”

“Things could happen after he graduates, you know.” Zara reminds her, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

“Ha.” Iris laughs humourlessly “Yeah.”

“Anyway, I promise to come to this football match. It looks like you need all the help you can get.”

* * *

 

It’s Saturday. Iris is at the pitch now, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

Beside her, Zara is powering through her packet of M&Ms at a feverish pace and, apparently, isn’t interested in being quiet about it either.  “God, these are so good.” she moans with a face stuffed with colour coated chocolates.

“Yeah, Zara. It’s a well-known fact that chocolate is delicious. Humans have known that for almost 500 years.” Iris says. Usually her snappy remarks obtain a bit more bite to them, and, well, make a bit more sense, but Iris can’t be arsed now. She’s saying everything in a tired monotone as a result of feeling a bit nauseous.

It’s mildly windy, and their hair is blowing in each other’s faces, but they’re here now, so, yeah. Not much use in turning back now.

This morning, Iris had dressed in a white jumper, some eggplant jeans and a coat. With her eventful first week at Farleigh done and dusted, she wasn’t in any particular mood to be driving back there again on a Saturday afternoon. But Louis would be there, so, whatever.

At first it had been a kind of no brainer, because, well, Louis, that’s why. But when Zara showed up at her door, wearing a very noticeable tie-dye shirt, Iris started to doubt if going was really all that wise. Did she want this? Is it worth going to his football game with her best friend and making a fool of herself just to watch him immerse in physical activity and maybe get a chance to talk to his sweaty self after the match? _Really_?

But she had promised. And she wasn’t too keen on breaking that promise if it meant losing Louis’ trust or erasing whatever budding signs of friendship they’d just watch grow.

Now, however, as she sits in the stands, a heavy feeling of regret is weighing her down. Surrounding her in the crowd is parents. Nice, settled parents who’ve simply come to watch their sons play. There are also a few teachers, like her, but they’re in the PE department; the ones that are mad enough for sport and school pride to _actually_ come on a Saturday for the first game of the season. But then again, Iris can’t really talk.

So Zara, with her tie-dye shirt and Iris, with her white face and worried appearance, look completely, ultimately, out of place.

Iris just stares at the vast green pitch in front of her, traces her eyes over the white lines and waits, waits, waits, trying to block out the noise of Zara’s crunching. The parents around her all look sensible with their coats and umbrellas because it might rain soon and healthy little snacks for their younger children. It’s then that Iris realises that Louis’ parents are hidden somewhere amidst this crowd. Perhaps she should familiarise herself with them, considering that they’ll probably meet again in a few months’ time in court.

Finally, the team runs out in a stream of colour and, _god yes._  Iris could pick out Louis from a mile away. His hair is blowing back as a result of the wind and he appears to be excited to the point of literally bouncing on his feet. His green and white football kit is just a little oversized, making him appear all small and cute and made to be snuggled. Iris is probably going to die of a cuteness overload. She forgets all the stuff about not fitting in and making a fool out of herself, because Louis’ here now. And that constitutes to her losing ever last bit of dignity she had so she can drool at him from the stands.

“So which one is he?” Zara asks through a mouthful of chocolate, and Iris, like the twit she is, doesn’t even hear the question as she’s so mesmerised by the way Louis looks in a football kit. “Hel-l _oo_?” she persists, nudging Iris on the shoulder.

“Hmm?” Iris asks casually, like she wasn’t just lusting over a seventeen year old high school student.

“I asked which one Louis is.” Zara informs her quietly, reaching into her bag for a noisy packet of coloured popcorn. Zara and her snacks. Honestly.

“The cute one.” Iris answers easily, keeping her eyes trained on the boy as he talks excitedly to one of his teammates.

“What are you— oh my _god._ You should see yourself. Fuck, you should _hear_ yourself. You look and sound ridiculous. God, I—“ Zara splutters, horrified at Iris’ desperate state to the point of amusement.

“Hey, fuck off.” Iris says fondly, finally managing to tear her eyes away from Louis. She gives Zara a playful smile; one which Zara hasn’t seen Iris wear for a while, and yeah okay, maybe she should stop all the teasing, if Louis is making her this happy. She’ll probably send him a basket of muffins and a card as thank you.

Iris looks back down at the pitch, her eyes bright and her smile wide. She’s trying to hide it but she just can’t; can’t when Louis is stretching like that.

“You still haven’t exactly told me which one he is.” Zara reminds her, offering her bag of popcorn in exchange.

Iris takes a few and pops them in her mouth “He’s the one with like,” she starts, swallowing “really soft ‘n fluffy ‘n feathery brown hair. With a little fringe, yeah? And he’s small. Probably one of the shortest on the team.”

“Oh yeah. I think I see him. Number… seventeen, ‘s that right?” Zara says, squinting.

“Yeah, that’s him. And he has like, these really captivating blue eyes, ‘n I know that sounds cheesy. _Captivating._ But like, ‘s true. They kind of just draw you in, you know? And his cheekbones. _God._ ” Iris tips her head back at that, closing her eyes at the memory of Louis’ sharp jawline.

“That good?” Zara laughs, crinkling up her nose.

“Yeah. ‘m not even joking, like, he is literally a Greek God.”

Zara almost points out that Iris used the word ‘literally’ in the wrong sense, because Iris is picky like that and it’s uncommon for her to ever make that mistake, but decides not to, because, well, look at her face. She’s beaming.

The whistle blows shortly after, and Iris, maintaining her gaze on Louis, moves to whisper in Zara’s ear. “So what’s your take on him?”

Zara pauses, looking at the boy in question. He’s running up the field, shouting something at one of his teammates, the wind aggressively blowing his hair to one side. From what she can see of him from this distance, she can’t deny that he’s cute, yeah. But he’s not Zara’s type when it comes to men. Zara likes tattoos, piercings, cigarettes and all things dangerous, and Louis looks like a tiny little deer in a forest, prancing around in the leaves. But she can see why Iris would like him, because she’s basically a doe in a forest too; wide eyed and adorable. Zara really, _really_ wants them to be together. “He’s alright. Not my type but, definitely yours, so.”

“So?” Iris prompts.

“ _So,_ I’m just sayin’ that if something were to happen after he graduates,” Zara says suggestively

“ —unlikely, but yeah, go on.”

“I approve of you and him together.” Zara finishes, a proud smile stretching across her face because fuck she’s a good friend.

“Aww, thanks Zar. You’re the best.” she says sincerely. Usually they don’t have cheesy friendship moments like this. It’s all banter and inside jokes and getting pissed together on a Saturday night. But sometimes, a rare occasion like this comes and they both can’t help but smile warmly at each other like proper gits.

“Oh my god, d’you see that?” Iris practically squeals when Louis kicks the ball off to another player, a good thirty minutes into the game.

“What?” Zara asks, wondering if there was something she missed.

“He kicked the ball again, Zara!” Iris sings, grabbing Zara by the shoulders and shaking her a bit “And his legs did the thing and ugh!”

Zara’s expression is traumatic before she says “God, you need to get some help.”

And Iris ignores that because _oh god, Louis is dribbling the ball up to the goal and —_

“Yes! Fuck yeah. Go Louis! _Yesyesyesyesyes._ ” Iris shouts, obnoxious enough for the people in the row in front of them to turn back with a displeased scowl. Zara literally facepalms, her expression rueful as she regrets ever agreeing to accompany Iris to this stupid thing. But Iris doesn’t care for any of it. She knows she looks like a right tosser, but who the fuck cares anymore, honestly? Louis is cute, and she is smitten. There.

 

* * *

 

“Well, that was—“

“Fantastic?” Iris intervenes, failing to wipe the embarrassingly large ear to ear grin off her face as she collects her bag from the filthy concrete floor.

“Traumatising, actually.” Zara corrects, remaining seated and staring off into the distance dramatically.

“C’mon, it couldn’t have been that bad.” Iris whines, standing up and waiting for Zara to join her.

But it was that bad. Iris had been absolutely humiliating. When she wasn’t on her feet, cheering Louis on like he was about to win at the Olympics, she was whispering things to Zara which she probably should’ve best kept to herself.

“Fuck, his legs though. Want them wrapped around me.”

“Look how agile he is. God, imagine him in the sheets.”

And, probably the worst was that subtle little moan Iris sounded every time Louis gained possession of the ball. Zara didn’t want to think about what fantasies Iris had running through her head.

Then there was the time Louis got fouled, and Iris practically shot up into the air, screaming at the ref for being a wanker. Luckily, it was bit of an unfair decision, so other people were complaining. Otherwise it would’ve just looked suspicious; some random girl who looks old enough to be a teacher, solo handily defending one of the boys with all her might.

Now, Zara has experienced enough second-hand embarrassment to last a lifetime. She’d tried hiding her face in her hands, pretending that she hadn’t arrived with Iris, but it was so obvious when she started talking to her, all fast and bubbly and giddy. Zara just gave up by the end.

“Ooh, look! He’s walking along the sidelines. Let’s go catch him before he gets to the change rooms.” Iris suggests excitedly, shuffling impatiently on the balls of her feet.

“You go. I think I’ll just…run in front of a bus or something.” Zara dismisses, her voice slow and pained.

“ _C’mon_.” Iris whinges “Don’t you want to see him? Like, proper see him? Not just watch him play football from a distance?”

Okay, so maybe ever since Iris gave that amazing description of his eyes ,cheekbones and lips (thin and long; they’d be absolutely perfect to kiss ohmygod), she’s kind of been dying to see how much she’d over exaggerated. So with a sigh to hide her eagerness, Zara lifts herself up, brushes herself off and gestures for Iris to lead the way.

While walking down there, Iris moves tentatively, taking her time. Zara wonders what caused this sudden absence of enthusiasm.

It’s finally starting to settle for Iris that she can’t do this, can’t face Louis, all sweaty and tired and attractive without thinking of all the things she said earlier; all the comments on how good he would look suspended above her, jagged breathing and languid pace. That would just be a disaster.

But still, a small smile remains on her face, because, well, she wants this. She really does. She wants to see Louis, talk to him, seem friendly.

So, in a moment where everything just seems to make sense, she runs, her mouth spreading into a wide grin because she can’t believe she’s actually doing this. Zara desperately tries to keep up with her but fails since she’s trying to finish her popcorn off at the same time and little dots of colour are flying everywhere, pressuring her to apologise to everyone she passes.

Iris feels amazing and alive and like she could do this for miles and— oh.

She comes to a sudden halt, the smile on her face disappearing almost as quickly as it came. Zara crashes into her from behind, trying to save the last few morsels of popcorn, but Iris doesn’t notice as she watches Louis, a good five metres in front of her, leaning over the fence.

His family are there to congratulate him on the win. His dad is wearing glasses and a jumper over a shirt and he looks so proud of his son that Iris might drown herself. His mother has the same colour hair and eyes as him and she’s all smiley, pinching Louis’ cheek. Then there are the siblings; the oldest, a girl who’s watching the ground, bored, then the middle child, another girl who’s snacking on a muesli bar, and then two little twins, girls as well, looking excited and giggly because their older brother’s team won and there are so many people here and wow.

Iris nearly throws up, because that’s Louis there, a teenager with a family and a good home who doesn’t know what it’s like to have his whole life fall apart. Louis, who hasn’t been on his own or seen the true terrors of the world. Who hasn’t turned his blood into alcohol and drunk the night away, waking up in an unfamiliar bed and leaving before the stranger beside him can open their eyes. Who doesn’t know what it’s like to live on a student budget and stay in a rotten flat with four other people, living off microwave meals and makeshift furniture. 

Louis, who’s still so incredibly young.

The other day in the library, Louis had seemed so alike to her. They were equal; just two people with very similar interests. But now they seem so different — polar opposites.

Louis is seventeen. Iris is twenty four.

_Seventeen; Twenty-Four._

“Iris? Are— are you okay there?” Zara asks from behind, genuinely concerned. She follows Iris’ line of vision and looks at Louis and his family, wondering why Iris has suddenly gone rigid.

“Hmm?” Iris asks, snapping out of it “Oh, nothing I, uh, just got a little distracted.”

Zara doesn’t question it, just nods wordlessly and steps in front of her with an expectant expression “You coming or what?”

And Iris can’t help but nod. Yeah, the sudden mellowing realisation that Louis is so young and tiny and inexperienced and _illegal_ , is kind of having an effect on her. She’s not as bubbly as before and her energy levels have certainly decreased. But Iris isn’t going to not say hello to him. She needs to inform him that she had come and watched him play, like she’d promised, so they don’t lose that little bit of trust they’d developed.

Louis’ family tear away eventually, and Louis begins to head towards a small brick building labelled ‘change rooms’, and Iris knows this is her only chance.

“Louis!” she calls, and absolutely loves the way his head turns around in search of his caller, expression all cute and confused.

She bolts up to the fence at that, surprising Zara and even herself, and when Louis’ eyes land on her they actually brighten. Holy fuck.

“You came!” he beams, all happy and looking absolutely heavenly with the sunlight hitting him like that.

“Did I say I wouldn’t?” Iris prods, quirking up a brow. Louis’ hands are on the low diamond fence, reaching just below his waist, and Iris places her hands on the bar too, a reasonable enough distance away from Louis’, because she feels as if she needs the support.

“I just— I don’t know, I thought it was stupid of me to ask, I mean—“ he gushes, a very faint tinge of pink making itself known on his cheeks. Iris convinces herself it’s a result of his exhaustion because that’s the only explanation which doesn’t send her nervous system into overdrive.

He’s giving her a look, and Iris knows she’s seen that very look on someone else before, she just can’t put her finger on it. The name Luke Braylin flashes in her head and she forces it out instantly, eager to get her mind off it.

“’s fine. I had a good time anyway. It was fun watching the team play.” she admits

“Yeah? I saw you up there when I got that foul. You were very, erm…passionate.” Louis says with a laugh, and now it’s Iris’ turn to blush a little.

“Oh god, I’m sorry. I always get like that when I watch football, it’s just—“

“s’ okay. Just quietly, I do agree with you that the ref was a wanker.” he adds with a wink, and Iris needs to run over to that ice bucket they have over there for the players and tip the whole thing over her head.

Louis has hooked his toes into one of the slots in the diamond fence and is mindlessly rocking back and forth, the energy high from the game still pulsing inside him, and to Iris’ evil mind it just looks like every time he’s leaning close he’s just gonna kiss her, and it’s not helping her remain composed.

A cough originating from her left brings her out of the fantasy where Louis is making out with her on the sidelines after just having scored the winning goal, and Iris honestly forgot that Zara was still there.

“Oh, this is my friend Zara. Zara, this is,” she starts but finds herself stuck because who is Louis to her, exactly? Professionally, he’s her student. But socially? “Louis. This is Louis.” She says firmly, because he doesn’t have to be anything to her, does he? No, he’s just Louis, for now.

Louis sticks his hand out and Iris tries to ignore the pang of jealousy that hits her when Zara shakes it because _she gets to touch him_. Ungrateful little twat gets to touch him and Iris doesn’t. That’s not right.

“Hi.” Louis says with a friendly smile “Nice to meet you.”

“You too. And by the way, when it comes to Iris watching football, you haven’t seen anything yet.” Zara adds cheekily, nudging Iris in the ribs. Louis’ eyebrows raise and he looks at Iris, amused.

“What do you mean?” Iris asks Zara with a confused pout.

“’m talking about last night, with you drunkenly screaming ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ on top of—“

“Oh my god, don’t you dare talk about that, I’m serious.” Iris shrieks, tempted to slap her across the face for saying such a thing in front of Louis.

“It was priceless though. And speaking of last night, d’you know what happened to Niall?”

 “Before he left I heard him talking about stealing a llama with Ollie, but I don’t know what happened after that. I did get a weird text from him this morning about blue cheese though, so I don’t think he’s dead.”

Louis sounds a small laugh, and both Iris and Zara turn to look at him “That sounds so funny. Do you guys do that often? Get pissed and stuff.” he asks, and Iris is yet again reminded of how young he is.

“Eh. Every so often.” Iris shrugs “Once every few weeks.”

“I can’t wait until I can go clubbing. Sounds like so much fun.” Louis comments.

“It really isn’t.” Zara promises him, scrunching up her nose in disgust.

“Yeah, it’s just foul smelling alcohol and cringey dancing and waking up with awful hangovers.” Iris agrees.

“Then…why do you do it?” Louis wonders, tilting his head to the side. He’s young, so very young.

“To forget about life for a while.” Zara says bluntly, kicking at the grass rather depressingly .

“Oh.” Louis says, sounding taken aback. Now the atmosphere surrounding them is a little awkward and vaguely upsetting. Iris can’t help but think of how Louis just doesn’t understand; doesn’t understand the world like he doesn’t understand Shakespeare. “Uh, I think my family are calling me, so I better get changed. It was nice seeing you though, Iris. And nice meeting you, Zara.”

They mumble a goodbye and Iris audibly curses at herself and everything as she watches Louis enter the change rooms.

“What?” Zara prods beginning to walk in the direction of the carpark.

“That was awful, oh god oh god. Why’d you have to mention last night and clubbing and all that stuff?” Iris says quickly, bringing her hands to her face.

“I don’t know. Thought it’d be funny. Anyway, I can understand why you’re this obsessed over him.”

“I am _not_ obsessed.” Iris objects, stepping onto the concrete and beginning to search for her shitty car.

“Yeah, okay. But I think he’s cute.” Zara says to lighten the mood.

“He’s young, is what he is.” Iris says sadly, approaching her Clio and unlocking the door.

“I know but, it kind of makes him even cuter.” Zara admits hesitantly.

“It makes him illegal.” Iris finalises matter-of-factly while sliding into the driver’s seat.

They drive back to Iris’ flat and watch Friends on E4, each cradling a mug of hot chocolate, Iris’ with just a sneaky hint of brandy. Okay maybe it isn’t so sneaky. It was done on purpose because they both know that Iris is in for the hardest year of her life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (unedited)

When Iris arrives at work the following Monday, her expectations for an enjoyable week aren’t high. _No_ , she thinks as she brews a quick cuppa in the basic staffroom kitchen, _I’d frankly rather be hit by a bus than teach Literature right now._

It’s funny because it’s not even anger she’s feeling, but more of an acceptance. Like, _Yes, welcome to my life; It’s shit, as you can see, but you’ll get used to it._

Dunking in a teabag, she anticipates for something heartbreaking to happen in today’s class, like Louis ignoring her the whole lesson, refusing to meet her eyes and doodling in his exercise book the whole hour, or perhaps even not showing up at all.

The little conversation they had on Saturday had started off well, but as soon as Zara had said that one tiny thing, all that playful banter and those soft blushes and warm smiles had gone, replaced with Louis’ realisation that Iris and Zara are, to put it lightly, sad excuses for human beings.

Because Iris doesn’t know when, but sometime earlier that day Louis had convinced himself that the two girls were just what he aspired to be when he reached that age; night goers, thrill seekers and regular drinkers. And Louis just doesn’t understand that they’re _not_ that. Maybe the drinking part, yeah, but they’re not fun to be around. They’re sad and depressing and all they seem to do is mope. Louis shouldn’t want to get involved with them.

But in fact, as it turns out, Louis doesn’t avoid Iris. No, you could say he does the opposite.

“Iris,” Tracey, another English teacher calls from behind her, causing her to almost spill her freshly brewed tea from shock.

“Yeah?” she asks, spinning around and trying to mask the fact that she’s extra jumpy this morning by feigning nonchalance in the manner in which she speaks. “Whatdya need?”

“There’s a student waiting to see you outside the staffroom.” she informs her, and with that, promptly resumes going about her day.

Iris practically panics, however, because that could be Louis, and facing the boy is something she simply can’t deal with on a day like this. So she just quietly nods to herself in assurance that it’s all going to be okay, and attempts to remain her professional aura in front of all her more experienced colleagues. She’s so young that sometimes she feels as if she needs to do double the work to prove herself worthy of her job title.

She reluctantly abandons her steaming mug of tea, and instead opts to deal with whoever’s hailing for her attention. Passing through the staffroom entrance and into the administration corridor, however, she’s stopped by the mouldy sandwich that is William Hammond, _just_ a second before she could turn around and discover the student in dire need of her assistance.

“Hi, uh, Ivy,” William greets awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. In doing so he reveals a damp yellow patch over the stretch of shirt which covers his underarm, and Iris could probably throw up right about now.

“It’s Iris.” she reminds him in a friendly tone, as making enemies in the workplace was never really her thing. _Be kind to everybody,_ is her motto. You can have your horrible, retched opinions about people, just never voice them and you’ll be fine.

“Right. Iris. Sorry.” he says more to himself, screwing his eyes shut and shaking his head a tad. “Uh, so a few teachers are going out for drinks on Saturday night, and…”

Iris drowns out the rest of his monotonic sentence, as she catches a peek over William’s shoulder of the student who had been waiting oh so patiently for her. It’s Louis, sitting on a provided chair outside the staffroom, watching Iris and Mr Hammond’s conversation with interest. Half of her wants to scream, the other wants to squeal. Scream, because after last Saturday’s events she’s pretty sure she’s lost her position as his favourite teacher, and squeal because he really is so adorable and funny and Iris is still in complete awe of him.

“So, ah, would you?” she hears William ask, but is distracted from the knowledge that Louis is listening in, and by the looks of it… shooting daggers at Mr Hammond’s back. Is he… jealous?

“Would I what?” Iris asks quickly, snapping back into it. If William wasn’t confident before, then he certainly isn’t now. He starts fumbling, stammering and making it blatantly obvious that he’s intimidated by Iris to some degree. Iris can only wonder why, as she resembles a tiny forest creature. She makes the presumption that he fancies her, as it’s the only logical reason he’d get so worked up over doing something as simple as talking to her.

Her presumption is proved correct when he stutters out, “Would you, uh, go with me on Saturday night?”

She sounds a few little hmms of indecisiveness, trying to appear unsure when her immediate answer is hell no. What doesn’t help is that she yet again catches accidental sight of Louis, and god, he is practically the definition of envious. His hands have clenched up into fists and have begun gnawing at the material of his school pants, attempting to release some anger. And his stare could easily kill a man; cold blue eyes burning holes into everything he looks at.

Iris is certain she can’t breathe, and when Louis turns his attention to her, scowling, she makes a quiet whimpering sound in the back of her throat. She can’t deny that the sight of jealous Louis turns her on a little. She feels tingles in her lower regions at the fantasy of him pushing her against a wall, kissing her feverishly while insisting that she’s his. _Holy fuck where did that come from._

“Erm, sorry,” she says to William while maintaining the intense eye contact with her Literature student. “It’s my parent’s 30th wedding anniversary on Saturday and I’ve already said I’d go to the little party they’re throwing.” she lies. Her parents are divorced.

“Oh, uh— that’s fine, that’s completely fine.” William gushes, and Iris fucking swears she catches Louis’ lips curve into a slight smile; the kind of grin where you don’t won’t anybody to notice it but can’t possibly fight it off. “Maybe another time, yeah?” the dull Biology teacher asks with hope, and Iris can’t help but feel immensely sad for him. He’s trying, he really is, but she’s just not that into him, and as awful and concerning as it sounds, younger boys are more her taste.

“Yeah, maybe.” she agrees half-heartedly, knowing she wouldn’t allow herself to a date with William Hammond for as long as she’s still breathing. She can see the man’s mouth open, indicating he’s about to say something else, but Iris doesn’t think she can bear another word, so instead politely excuses herself and ducks around him.

Louis, who’d been sulkily slumping into his chair, straightens as he notices Iris approaching, then proceeds to give her a sweet smile, as if his recent jealous episode never occurred.

“Hey Lou.” she greets, plonking down on the chair beside him. Usually she prefers to tower above students when addressing them as a small reminder that while sometimes her class can consist of fun and games, she’s still the one in authority. She doesn’t feel the need to do that with Louis, though, and it should be worrying, how comfortable she is with him, how she treats him like a friend. Like, for example, calls him an affectionate nickname out of the blue.

“Lou?” he repeats mockingly, a playful gleam in his eyes.

“Yes. Lou. That’s what I’m calling you now.” she replies matter-of-factly, rolling her eyes as if it’s obvious.

“Alright then,” he laughs “whatever floats your boat.”

_You know what would float my boat, Louis? You, on top of me, in a bed—_

“So about Thursday,” he starts, beginning to fumble his fingers and avert his gaze towards the carpet.

“We still on?” she asks, adjusting her legs so that they’re subtly angling a little more in Louis’ direction.

“Yeah, yeah. Definitely.” he dismisses with a wave of his hand “I don’t think I’d survive this week without a tutoring session.” he jokes, and Iris hums in agreement “No, uh, it’s just that I can’t do Thursday. I have a commitment already planned which I completely forgot about last week and I—“

“That’s fine,” she intervenes quickly, not in the mood to hear about Louis’ Thursday plans; all the teenage stuff like parties and sporting events and extra-curricular activities that’ll simultaneously remind her of his age and make her feel violently ill. “So how ‘bout we do—“

“—Sunday?” Louis finishes, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Sunday? You mean like, not after school or anything. But like, on the _weekend_?” she splutters in disbelief, because _the weekend._

“Yeah, I mean, I know it seems bad but I have commitments after school every day this week, and on Saturday I’m going to my Nan’s place. Sunday is just the only time which fits.”

“I’m not sure—“

“I’ll definitely pay you this time. Promise. In fact, I won’t allow you to go home empty handed. You deserve something back for what you’re doing. Really, Iris.” he says solemnly, gaze never straying away from her face. And because he’s being so incredibly sweet and gorgeous, Iris can’t help but give in.

“Alright, I’ll do it.” she agrees, sighing. “But I don’t want to be paid in cash. I’ll probably blow it all on my secret gambling addiction. Pay me in Jammy Dodgers instead, okay?”

“Great!” Louis nearly squeals, temporarily appearing as if he’s going to wrap Iris up in the tightest embrace known to man. “I’ll give you my address. Come by at around five, yeah?”

“O— Okay.” she stammers, suddenly dumbfounded at the realisation that she’s going to actually be inside Louis’ house. Like, be in a place with Louis, where there’s a bed and a shower and a flight of stairs to be led up. Where Iris could so easily slip and find herself in all sorts of trouble. Meanwhile, Louis jots down his address on a nearby sheet of paper without a care in the world, even smiling while doing so.

While folding the sheet of paper in half and placing it in her grasp, he says “You don’t really have a gambling addiction, do you?”

“No,” she replies, clenching her fingers around the paper, “I just really like Jammy Dodgers.”

And with that, Louis lets escape a small giggle before leaving. And Iris does not, _does not,_ contemplate going to the written address late at night and kidnapping the absolute cupcake that is Louis Tomlinson.

* * *

 

Iris loves the weekend, purely because it’s great knowing that after a week packed with stressful work and difficult situations, two days of nothing but sleep, food and fun are always awaiting her with open arms.

This weekend, however, potentially won’t be as joyous, given that she’s expected to physically drive herself to _Louis’ fucking house_ and actually _tutor_ him without being able to throw him onto the nearest couch and snog the life out of him. It’s hard to trying to educate him in a goddamn library. Imagine having to teach him in his own lounge room.

So the week preceding Sunday’s weakly anticipated event goes as follows; Monday: cry. Tuesday: cry some more. Wednesday: empty the fridge’s ice cream contents and consume a litre or five. Thursday: almost have a panic attack. Friday: call Zara in a fit of worry and sob over the phone. Saturday: genuinely consider going to the staff function with William in hope it would be a distraction.

Taking this job at Farleigh Heights really was a huge mistake, as she hasn’t been this emotionally unstable since her teenage years. Maybe she should pull out the old Nirvana records and start screaming ‘Fuck society!’.

Now it’s Sunday afternoon — four o’clock, to be precise — and Iris couldn’t be more fidgety. Louis’ address owns a special spot on her bedside table, wedged in between her lamp and the novel she’s reading. She repeatedly skims over the boyish handwriting, tracing her fingertips over the messy scrawl and noting each letter’s curve. She’s already searched for directions on Google maps, and basically has all the street names and turns memorised.

At quarter to five, Iris, after multiple anxious laps around her flat and much time spent gnawing at her bottom lip, conclusively grabs her keys, pockets her phone and leaves, not sparing a glance back. The drive there is long; seconds converted to minutes and minutes converted to hours, and she curses at herself the whole way. Her gaze shifts towards her dashboard clock more times than necessary, ensuring that she arrives at the exact right time; late, but not late enough for it to be considered rude. 

His street is full of identical, 70’s brick houses with white window sills. There are concrete driveways and abandoned, weathered footballs on street kerbs and everything Iris hasn’t seen for so, so long. She cruises through, inspecting everything she passes with wide eyes, thinking about how Louis must’ve ridden up this road so many times before.

The Tomlinson’s house is the last on the street, with cream coloured curtains and tangerine light peeking through the musty, downstairs windows. Her mind races when she notices an empty driveway and absence of sound. She parks on the street to be polite, and gathers all the materials she bought off the passenger seat; the play they’re studying, their current assignment and a blank notebook for handiness. With one final glimpse of the clock — five past, so perfect — she rushes out the door before she can cower herself out of it.

Iris remembers Louis telling her he has four loud sisters, remembers him complaining about the sheer madness which regularly occurs in his home, and can only wonder why the house seems to quiet. She briefly speculates if she has the wrong house, or if Louis had given her a different address, but then she’s bravely knocking on the door and hearing, noisy, approaching footsteps, as if someone is quite literally bounding up to the door, and her breath catches in her throat.

The moment the door is pulled back, she feels paws on her knees. Like, actual animal paws, clawing at her brand new pair of tights and dirtying her skirt. She quickly peers down, only to discover a vaguely familiar mixed breed dog, panting with happiness and greeting Iris on its hind legs.

The second thing she hears is a very firm “Ted, off!” by a voice she’s even more acquainted with, and—

_Holy fucking shit, the bastard._

Louis is wearing a pair of sweatpants, hung loosely over his hips with the string untied, and a very snug band t-shirt. Iris is certain she’s never seen anything more attractive in her twenty four years of existence, and almost melts from the sight.

Completely forgetting there’s a dog jumping on her leg, Iris gawks at Louis without shame, mouth hanging open and practically undressing him with her eyes. Jesus fucking Christ.

“I said off.” Louis repeats to his stubborn dog, scowling at him. Ted, the dog, hops off at that, trotting behind Louis and further through the house with his tail swishing behind him. 

Louis, who’d been bent over, attempting to pry Ted off Iris’ poor leg, looks up for the first time, his eyes a crystal blue, and offers Iris a lazy smile.

“Hi.” he says casually, standing back up so they’re level. Iris considers jumping him.

“Hello.” she replies, her voice a little cracked and shaky, as she’s still shocked from the very sudden presentation of a messy-haired Louis in sweatpants. She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and nods politely at him in acknowledgement, scolding herself every time her eyes wander to his crotch.

“So you’ve met Ted.” he comments, referring to the dog who’d just made holes in Iris’ tights. She couldn’t really care less about the condition of her tights at the moment, not when Louis is peering down on her like that. “And it looks as if he’s left a mark.” he continues sheepishly, gesturing towards the rips in the dark material covering Iris’ thighs.

Iris looks down at them, scrunching her face up a bit at the decision that she doesn’t really mind, and is startled when she notices Louis staring at them intently. Not just like, _staring,_ but looking at her half naked thighs for a _really_ long time. A concerning amount of time.

“I think it’ll be okay.” she concludes, waving her hand dismissively “I mean, I could just take them off.”

For a short second, Louis’ face brightens at the prospect, and Iris doesn’t pretend she doesn’t notice. She isn’t going to be verbal about it, but she just might mentally capture that moment where Louis genuinely appeared as if he was about to start chanting for Iris to ‘take them off!’.

But unfortunately Louis does compose himself, and averts his eyes back to Iris’ face. “Sorry about him,” he continues, cocking his head towards the side apologetically “He just gets excited sometimes with new people, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” Iris replies lamely, unable to conjure up anything else. She just nods, waiting for one of them to say something else. No one does though, and they’re left in a cloud of awkwardness, which frankly Iris hates.

“Uh, you can come in, you know.” Louis eventually tells her with slight amusement in his voice, stepping back and beckoning her inside.

“Oh, right.” Iris says dumbly, screwing her eyes shut and making a mental note to be less stupid next time. Louis playfully rolls his eyes and shakes his head, a fond smile tugging at his lips as he turns away, disappearing into an archway on the right. Iris can only follow him, and she enters his house with wide eyes, taking everything in. There are family pictures hanging off walls, almost obscuring the faded wallpaper. It’s the essence of a standard, middleclass house, with pine furnishings and grey carpet. There’s evidence of Louis’ famously annoying siblings on the dining table; some abandoned crayons surrounding a few rushed drawings of houses and people. It smells like some sort of cinnamon incense, mixed with something else. Vanilla, maybe?  It’s all very homey and nice, with the warmth of a fireplace and cosiness of its small size. She likes it here, she’s decided.

“So, uh, we could just set it all up on the dining table, yeah?” Louis asks, nodding his head down at the table, sliding away a few papers to make room. Iris nods back in agreement, following his lead.

“If you don’t mind me asking, was that the dog who got fed your copy of _Antony and Cleopatra_?” Iris asks playfully, pulling out a chair.

 Louis narrows his eyes at her, his mouth arching into a feint scowl. “I didn’t feed it to him. I swear to god he just found it and mistook it for a piece of steak.” he spits. Both of them know there’s no trace of truth in that statement, however, so they give each other knowing smiles, sinking into their adjacent seats.

Louis immediately goes and rests his chin on his palm, watching Iris with tired eyes as she pulls out _Antony and Cleopatra_ from her pile of tutoring necessities. “You got your book?” she asks him, quirking up a brow. Louis frowns, his gaze fleetingly dropping to the floor before nodding, almost grudgingly. “You wanna go get it?” she prompts, looking at him expectantly. To that, he shakes his head, eyelashes fanning out against his soft cheeks. Iris just sighs, wondering why exactly she agreed to helping the boy when he hasn’t yet shown any signs of actual effort.

“Fine,” Louis huffs, lifting off his seat and wandering his way back through the archway.

“This is why you’re struggling with Literature.” Iris adds after him, tutting.

Louis pauses at the doorway, his face peeking from behind his shoulder, and Iris doesn’t like to use the word smirk — that’s something she affiliates with ‘bad boys’ in terribly written erotica novels — but that’s probably the only way to describe the smile he’s giving her. She just can’t deal with it, can’t deal with his messy hair and his loosely hanging sweats and his goddamn smirk, and will probably achieve and orgasm if she doesn’t look away.

Because she doesn't want to make a fool of herself by moaning in pleasure in the middle of what is sure to be a perfectly normal interaction, she does just that; look away. And Louis takes it as his cue to leave, scurrying up the stairs in search of his workbook.

With the new found silence, Iris sits patiently and ponders exactly how she ended up in Louis' dining room, how exactly she’s sitting here, right now, and not going absolutely mental with the knowledge that she’s in his _goddamn house_. It puzzles her deeply, how she can remain so composed

She watches the clock tick by, and taking note of the silence, suddenly realises something so obvious that she wonders how she never noticed it before. As far as she’s concerned, there’s nobody in the house besides her and Louis; no mother at the door, no father popping in to see who’s visiting, no sisters running about the lounge. No, by the looks of it, they’re utterly alone.

“Louis,” she starts slowly once he’s returned, book in hand.

“Yeah?” he asks, sliding back into his seat.

“Where are your family?”

“My family?” he asks, furrowing his brow as if he’s never heard of the term before.

“Y’know; mother, father, sisters.” she lists, voice slow, as if she’s talking to a child.

“Oh, erm. Right. Family.” he agrees suddenly, momentarily appearing as if he’s going to smack himself in the head. “They’re at, uh, a family friend’s place. Some barbecue thing. Would’ve gone, but, this is probably more important.”

If you asked Iris to repeat his answer, she’d be screwed, because all she gained from that was the conformation that Louis’ family are definitely not present, and that she’s here, alone with him, and there’s a bed upstairs and a couch in the living room and some possibilities which make her heartbeat increase to what’s sure to be an unhealthy rate.

“But anyway,” Louis says, pulling her out of her very elaborate shower sex fantasy “We should probably get started on the, you know, Shakespeare and stuff.”

And they do. It starts off perfect; Louis listening to Iris intently and truly making an effort. The further they go along, the more he understands the play, and he’s soon able to correctly answer all the questions on the brief quiz she gives him. Iris is so proud of him, and he’s laughing by the end, smile as bright as sunshine.

“So now that you actually like, understand the text,” Iris says, “We can finally get started on the assessment task.”

Louis groans in protest, his head falling on to the table with a thud. He obscures his face with his hands, his hair turning scruffy in the process. Iris really wants to scurry her hands through it, but knows that wouldn’t be entirely appropriate.

“C’mon,” she urges “You’re gonna have to do it eventually. And you’re already well behind the whole class. Let’s just …get it finished, yeah? Get it over and done with.” she continues, poking his shoulder lightly. It’s a mindless, playful action she performs without really thinking about it; jabbing her finger into his skin. But when she does finally register exactly what she’s doing, her eyes widen, because _she’s touching him._ His skin is soft and smooth and kind of squishy. She likes it; _likes him_. A lot.

“I don’t wanna.” Louis mumbles into the table, shaking his head a little.

“Please, Lou. You were so enthusiastic before, and —“

“You know what?” Louis perks up abruptly, turning his head to look at Iris “I just came out to have a good time and I’m honestly feeling so attacked right now.”

Iris just rolls her eyes, trying to force back a smile. “C’mon. You asked for help and now you’re getting it.” she concludes, thrusting the task in front of him.

Louis lets out an exaggerated sigh, reading over the paper while shaking his head and muttering something quietly which Iris fails to comprehend. Something about “fuckin’ really,” and “Jesus”. She takes a moment to imagine any other student displaying this sort of attitude to one of the teachers at Farleigh Heights, and can safely say that the student would have multiple detentions for the sass and the sarcasm. But Iris doesn’t threaten Louis with any of those consequences, because she likes him and he likes her, and they both have this sort of weird teacher/student friendship which allows them to banter to the point of insults containing swears. Neither of them mind, really. In fact, Iris loves it; the way Louis feels as if he can say whatever he wants in front of her.

“So the first part is—“ she starts, but is soon cut off.

“I know, I know. I’m reading it.” Louis dismisses, tutting in annoyance.

Iris shuts up and watches him read, watches the way his eyebrow creases and how his lips part slightly to mouth the words he has running through his head. He signals he’s done by dropping the paper and looking at Iris expectantly.

“Do you understand it?” she asks.

In reply, Louis gives a slow shake of the head, expression remaining neutral.

She goes on to explain the task, explain exactly what he has to do, but he seems distant; preoccupied. It’s almost as if he isn’t even listening to her. He does look up at her occasionally, but his eyes appear vacant, stare blank, and soon he’s off twiddling his thumbs, ignoring her.

“So now do you—“

“Yeah, I do.” he answers before she can finish, and Iris can’t help but think he’s lying. He opens up his workbook, rests his chin on his palm and picks up a pen, holding it over the top of the page. Iris quickly withdraws her phone, noticing the opportunity, and checks her text messages underneath the table. The top of the screen tells her it’s six thirty, which means she should probably head home and microwave some leftovers for dinner. She turns back to Louis and sees that his page is still blank, the tip of his pen still hovering over the top left corner.

“I’m uh, gonna head home now.” she informs him, beginning to scoot out of her chair. “You can keep this copy of—“

“Hey, hey, hey,” Louis says quickly, stopping her “why’re you leaving?” he demands with a furrowed brow, mouth parting slightly in confusion. Iris nearly dies because  _does he really want her to stay that much?_

“I’ve got to get home and start dinner and—“

“You can have dinner here.” he suggests, patting the chair she once occupied to persuade her back.

She really mustn’t stay. She has Florence to feed and Breaking Bad to watch and things to cry over which may or may not relate to the romantic thoughts she’s been having about Louis lately. Plus it’s getting late, and Iris doesn’t want to imagine what she could get up to after dark in a house which only hosts herself and the very attractive brunet boy.

“I’ve got leftover spaghetti.” he adds with a smile and _okay._ She could put all the stuff on hold, maybe.

With a sigh she lowers herself back to her seat, Louis grinning at her. The things she does for him. Jesus.

“To be honest this is probably the most productive I’ve ever been in my life, but, if we continued studying I think we’d be asking too much of my brain, so. I’ll go warm up some spaghetti, yeah?” Louis says, scooting out of his chair. Iris can’t help but agree, because pushing him too hard would only result in negative effects, and spaghetti sounds lovely at the moment.

Louis smiles at her one last time before wandering into the kitchen, his walk slow and unhurried, almost like he’s just woken up. It’s kind of fitting, with his baggy sweatpants and ruffled hair. Iris briefly wonders if he had been lazing about all day, and smiles at the image of him in a bed, all curled up and snuggly and gorgeous.

While siting at the dining table there isn’t much to do, except continue browsing through her phone, checking notifications until every red bubble disappears.

“Are you really hungry? How much do you want?” Louis asks from the kitchen, voice raised so she can hear him.

“Uh, I won’t have much.” Iris replies politely, scrolling down her twitter feed and trying to stifle a laugh over Niall’s most recently sent tweet, which was most likely composed when he was drunk off his arse.

Louis returns a few moments later, holding two bowls of steaming spaghetti Bolognese in both hands. Iris grins at him appreciatively, pocketing her phone.

She expects him to place one bowl in front of her, the other at his place on the table, you know, like a normal person would, but. “Uh,” he starts, pausing to think. “We’ll go eat somewhere else, yeah?” he concludes, nodding his head towards the door. Wow. _Isn’t that what a dining room’s for? To eat? Fuck, what if by ‘somewhere else’ he means his bedroom? Abort abort abort._

But Iris just follows along, her throat too dry and stubborn to voice an objection. Louis travels back into the hallway, Iris trailing close behind and trying to stray her eyes away from his arse. _You know what? Fuck it. It’s not like he can_ see _me having a full on perv._

They enter the lounge room, which holds two leather couches, a flat screen television, numerous pictures hanging off the walls and various other homey touches scattered about the room. It’s all warm and cosy, with a fireplace in the corner and muted yellow light emitting from the lamp. Louis turns towards a plain door on the back wall, painted the same shade as the cream walls. He then proceeds to lift his leg up to an impressive height and curl his toes around the handle, his hands otherwise occupied with the bowls. Iris just watches him with an open mouth, amazed that his body can do such a thing, amazed that he can just casually open a door with his foot in front of his house guest. Who the fuck is this boy?

“You could’ve just asked me to hold one of the bowls, you know.” Iris reminds him once the door has been pulled back — its absence revealing a set of stairs spiralling downwards.

“No, I know,” Louis replies, giving her a quick glance over his shoulder, eyes playful. “I just couldn’t waste the opportunity to show you my mad skills.” he adds, sounding the final ‘s’ in ‘skills’ as a ‘z’.

And Iris knows it’s just jokes; that nothing serious is being laid on the table just yet. But… fuck.

They walk down the stairs one after the other, and it’s about halfway through that Iris remembers she forgot to ask where exactly he’s taking her. The answer is soon clear when they land at the foot of the stairs, however, and Iris’ eyes scan over what she would probably label a ‘teenage hangout’. There’s an old, used couch, football posters lining the walls, a slightly out of date TV equipped with a gaming system, a mini basketball hoop to the side and various other things which confirm Louis to be the most avid user of the space.

“Bet this is where you take all the girls.” Iris jokes, taking note of the scrappy magazines littering the floor, the carelessly left-open game cases and the rotting apple core sitting on top of a speaker.

Louis chuckles, finally handing Iris her bowl of much awaited dinner, before plonking down on the couch. Iris kind of stands there, unsure what to do. She isn’t sure if she’s close enough to him to just slump down on the couch and make herself at home. No, she doesn’t think they’re at that level of friendship quite yet. But then Louis shovels a messy forkful of his spaghetti into his mouth, reaching for the remote and beginning to channel surf, and Iris decides that she better stop looking like an awkward git and go join him.

The spaghetti is yum, and Iris quite enjoys eating with him on the couch, watching the programme which he’d finally settled on — The Inbetweeners. It’s that episode where Will, Simon, Jay and Neil are at that underage disco thing, and there’s that one fourteen year old who’s trying to hook up with Simon. They both laugh at the humour on screen, turning to each other with amused gazes while laughing through their pasta.

“Mmmm.” Louis finishes quickly, tossing his fork in his bowl and placing it on the ground below. “That was so good. Wish I could have more.” he comments, settling his hands on his tummy and leaning further back into the couch cushion.

“You, uh, you could have some of mine, I— if you want.” Iris offers cautiously, not sure if sharing food would be pushing things too far.

Louis seems stoked at the idea, however, voicing an excited “Really?” And oh, he’s so adorable. Iris wants to wrap him in blankets and shower him with love.

“Yeah,” she says, already moving to fork some into his bowl “I already ate something before I came, so.”

When she’s transferred a decent amount of spaghetti from her bowl to Louis’, she looks back up, ready to hand it back to him. But Louis is sitting there, cross legged, facing her and offering his undivided attention. His eyes are closed and mouth slightly agape, and honestly, what the fuck is this?

“What are you—“

“I’m asking you to feed me, silly.” Louis replies, already knowing the end to that question. He laughs a little, fully aware that what he’s doing is ridiculous, and Iris can only sit there, shocked.

“O— Okay.” she chokes out, trying to dismiss the fact that Louis is _completely fine_ with having Iris’ fork in his mouth. “But you have to ask nicely first.” she compromises, finding her confidence again.

“ _Please_ feed me.” Louis begs with exaggerated emphasis, and Iris smiles and shakes her head before gently easing a forkful of spaghetti into the pleading boy’s mouth. “Mmm,” Louis moans at the taste, causing for Iris’ underpants to dampen just a little. His eyes are closed, sensually enjoying the pleasant taste, until he opens them, and there he is, gazing directly into her eyes intently as his tongue swirls around his lips, savouring the flavour. And Iris swears she fucking dies.

It’s so sexual, what he’s doing. So much that he surely must know it. Like seriously, there is no way in hell that Louis is unaware that gazing intensely into someone’s eyes while moaning and licking your lips is the opposite of innocent. It makes Iris question everything.

“Thank you,” he says a moment later, once everything has gone back to normal “That was nice.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll, uh, go take our bowls up to the sink, yeah?”

“No, I—“

“You bought them down. It’s only fitting if I took them back up.” Iris reminds him, snatching away his bowl before he can protest.

In the kitchen, Iris leans against the counter on the verge of the breakdown, her head in her hands. This night had started off so well, but taken a turn for the worse. She doesn’t know what to do with herself.

When she returns downstairs, it’s clear that The Inbetweeners has finished, as displayed on the screen are two girls caked in make up to the point where it’s sickening, which can only mean that Made In Chelsea has begun.

She joins Louis back on the couch and tries to get into the show, but it proves to be a challenge as she’s always had a particular distaste for reality shows of this genre. Beside her, Louis doesn’t appear as if he’s too invested in the TV either, fiddling with a loose string of his t-shirt and scowling in disinterest. Iris contemplates using this as her opportunity to leave, knowing that Louis couldn’t guilt her into staying with any more excuses now.

She mindlessly watches two women engage in a catfight on screen, and in her peripheral vision, just manages to catch sight of Louis eyeing her.

“What?” she asks lightly, not thinking too much of it.

Louis responds by shrugging, playing it off as if he wasn’t doing anything, sending her a questioning glare, as if to say ‘what are you talking about’.

It happens again about a minute later, just when Iris is making a start on forgetting the little encounter earlier. He’s watching her, that’s for sure. His cheekbones are sharp, jaw slightly clenched, and his cerulean eyes are so intense. It makes her feel small, the way he’s looking at her.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks more firmly, knitting her brow.

“Like what?” he questions, averting his stare to the ground. And that shuts Iris up, because there’s no possible way she could describe what she’d just seen in his eyes.

She sighs and turns her attention back to the TV, trying to concentrate on the still running catfight. But within a second Louis’ at it again, and really, it’s starting to get old.

“You’re doing it again.” she points out, her tone bitter as his unexplained staring is making her feel uneasy and insecure. Is there something on her face, or?

“I’m not.” Louis says back, even though he clearly is, and hasn’t even made an effort to look away and conceal that fact this time.

“ _What?_ ” Iris practically spits once  she’s had enough of the bullshit, her gaze snapping to face him.

Sadly, it doesn’t achieve much of an effect on him, as all he does is look towards his hands and begin picking at his nails. He sounds a quiet, uncomfortable laugh, and through the dim light of the lamp Iris sees his soft cheeks change to a feint tint of pink. Iris is confused, so very confused at Louis’ strange behaviour, so all she can do is watch him with an agape mouth and wonder what exactly he’s trying to do.

“…Iris?” he whispers half a minute later, voice high and strained, and when she turns back to look at him yet again there’s a gleam of something familiar in his eyes — something she can’t yet put her finger on.

“What?” Iris breathes, lost for air at the sight of his beautiful blue eyes burning into hers.

It happens so suddenly. One second there’s a respectable distance between them, the next, Louis’ closing that gap by scooting over, running his tongue over his lips and leaning forward. Iris’ eyes widen immensely and her whole body goes rigid, because _whoa._ She can feel her heartbeat quicken in her chest as his hand brushes over her shoulder, moving towards her cheek. But she’s too shocked to even react, to even process the movements and advances Louis’ making in front of her. She feels his thumb press into the corner of her bottom lip, the tips of his other four fingers weaving their way into her hair, and she’s certain she was breathing just a moment ago, but not now. Definitely not.

Louis’ head dips down, and Iris feels a pair of soft, wet lips on hers, kissing softly — almost hesitantly.

_Oh my god oh my god oh my god he’s kissing me Louis is actually kissing me oh my god holy fucking shit._

Iris spoke too soon, because suddenly he isn’t anymore. No, he’s pulled back, the kiss having ended just as quickly as it had started, and in his eyes Iris comprehends what looks to be sadness. _Oh._

Iris hadn’t been kissing him back, had been too focused on processing the initial shock that Louis had just straight up gone and done such a thing, too preoccupied with trying not to melt. And Louis, the poor baby, had taken that as rejection, unaware that Iris _had_ wanted to kiss him. And still does.

He sucks the corner of his lip into his mouth, casting his gaze downwards in shame. He screws his eyes shut and breaths a pained “Fuck,” while bringing a hand up to run through his hair. He looks so guilt ridden, like he can’t believe what he just did. “I’m sorry,” he tells her, bowing his head. Because of their unbroken proximity, his face falls into her chest at the action, and _oh wow_.

“Shh, baby it’s alright.” she coos in a soft voice without even realising it, beginning to stroke his soft brown hair. Louis immediately perks up at her words, eyes enlarged and lip still being chewed on, and is the most surprised he’s even been in his life.

Iris looks at him — his beautiful eyes, his feathery fringe, his thin and glazed lips and his cute button nose  — and remembers that he’s all she’s ever wanted and more. And that’s enough to do it, yes?

Yeah, that’s enough.

Before she can stop herself, she grabs his face in two hands and returns her lips to his, starting off with slow, sweet movements. Louis reacts almost instantly, sounding a deep groan and threading his fingers into her hair, using them to tug her closer. Iris can’t help but whimper at the action, and clings onto him tighter, if it were possible.

Louis tastes like sugar and cinnamon and all things lovely, and Iris will probably jump off a cliff when this is over. Their lips seem to fit perfectly within each other’s, slotting together like puzzle pieces, and when Louis runs his tongue over the seam of her lips, Iris opens her mouth for him, granting his silent plea.

He pulls her into his lap, achieving dominance, and Iris loves the feel of him underneath her, the feel of his arms secured tightly around her middle, the feel of his tongue in her mouth. It’s all unhurried and perfect. Savouring.

“Wait,” Iris pulls away to ask, because she has to know. “The whole time?”

A coy smile finds its way to Louis’ slightly swollen and darkened lips before he quietly admits “Yeah.” He looks so breathtaking in the dim light, with his hair unkempt as a result of Iris scurrying her hands through it, and his eyes so unimaginably crystal clear blue up close.

“Me too.” Iris confesses happily, unable to halt the all-out grin which breaks her mouth in two, and also unable to stop herself from kissing him again. 

After that, it doesn’t take long for Iris to want more, and they fall into a rhythm; Iris grinding down and Louis pushing up into her lazily. She sucks his tongue into her mouth, loving his sweet taste, and lets out a muffled squeal when he suddenly starts coaxing her down onto the couch, pushing her against the cushions and crawling on top of her.

It’s all very young and foolish after that; making out on the sofa in the basement, Louis still mindful of the fact that his family could come home any minute. Iris feels younger than she has in years, and makes a mental note to come here more often, just so they can do this and nothing more.

“Iris?” Louis mumbles against her, sounding serious.  But Iris doesn’t take much notice, is too consumed by his taste and his smell and the feel of his body pressed against hers and just **_LOUIS_** _._ “Babe?” he says a moment later, persistent.

Iris pauses at the pet name, finding herself in absolute awe of the way it rolls off Louis’ tongue into a low moan, at the way it warms her insides more than any fireplace could on the coldest of nights. “Mmm?” she prompts, absentmindedly scratching at his scalp, making him purr and lean into the touch.

“I, um, I wanted to ask you, uh… about Mr Hammond.” he says, trying to fight off a moan when Iris hooks a leg around his middle, enabling their crotches to have more contact.

“Oh,” Iris laughs, amused. “You don’t have to worry about him being competition or anything. He’s like, ten years older than me and thinks he’s still got a chance. So yeah, he’s a creep.”

The irony hits them both at the same time. Their eyes widen and Iris voices a very annoyed “Oh, shit!”

Louis is seventeen. Iris is twenty four. And also a creep.

She’d been so invested in the fact that Louis had been feeling the exact same way the whole time, too caught up trying to understand how, what and why they’d gone from having an innocent tutoring session to grinding on the couch. She still can’t believe it, is still convinced it’s a dream, and can’t comprehend all that’s just happened in such a short space of time. _All this time, Louis had… liked her back?_

But reality had to kick in at some point, and, well, their relationship is still forbidden, so no changes there.

“Fuck,” Louis groans, running a hand through his hair.

“I’m a creep, aren’t I?” Iris says, refusing to meet Louis’ eyes.

“No!” he answers instantly “No, baby you’re not. Honestly. I want this. I want _you._ Please, just—“

He’s interrupted by Iris’ phone ringtone, and the sound of xylophone notes turns the atmosphere of the room from serious to awkward, and Iris should probably check who’s calling at this very inconvenient time, at least.

“Hang on,” she says, reaching into the pocket of her jacket. The name on the screen flashes up as ‘Zar’, and even though the subject of the call is probably going to be something stupid, Iris will take any excuse to escape the suddenly uncomfortable atmosphere of the downstairs basement. “I’m sorry, I’ve uh, gotta take this.” she lies sheepishly, sliding out from underneath him.

“Oh. ‘kay. That’s fine. Just, erm— just come back, yeah?” he says and Iris nods, accepting the call and holding the phone to her ear while scurrying up the stairs.

“ _Zara_.” she hisses, determined to keep the volume of the conversation to a minimum incase Louis overhears.

“Iris! Oh my god, Iris you won’t believe what just happened—“

“Zara, I swear to god whatever just happened to you is nowhere-fucking-near what just happened to me.” she promises, barely able to support herself she’s in that much of a state. She walks through the lounge, back through the hallway and eventually settles in the kitchen, leaning against a counter. With the new found distance, she’s able to speak as loud as she likes.

“Listen, Niall and I were—“

“Louis kissed me.”

“O— oh my gosh. _What?_ Are— _are you serious?_ ” Zara splutters.

“Mhm.”

“Was it, you know, good?”

“Yes, it was great. I liked it — loved it, even. But Zara, that’s not the point. I’m his _teacher_ , remember?”

“Oh. Yeah. Well that’s a bit fucked, innit?”

“Hey,” Iris hears Louis call from behind her, and spins around quickly in shock, surprised to find him leaning against the kitchen doorway.

“Uh, I’ll call you later tonight, okay? See ya.” Iris mutters quickly into the phone, ending the call before Zara can respond. “Hi, uh,” she says to Louis, pocketing her phone “I have to leave. Like, right now.”

“Thought you might be. It’s getting late.” he comments, smiling warmly at her, looking at her like she’s his favourite thing in the world, and oh Iris forgot — he has a massive crush on her, doesn’t he?

“Yeah, so I’d just better—“

“Oh! Before you go, I have to give you your payment.” he remembers, striding over to the pantry. Iris twists her face up in confusion, but smiles when she sees him pull out a packet of Jammy Dodgers.

“You didn’t have to.” she informs him as he places the pack in her hands.

“I wanted to.” he replies simply, and Iris’ heart swells to about double the normal size.

“Thank you. Uh, I’d better—“

“Yeah.”

And so Louis proceeds to walk her to the door with a hand cupped over her shoulder.

“You didn’t take off your tights.” he comments, nodding down at the ruined pair which Iris had frankly forgotten about amongst all the hugging and kissing.

Iris shrugs and turns to him, debating whether she should make a move or not. She doesn’t have to, though, because Louis bravely kisses her on the porch; slow and sweet and lingering, and she doesn’t even hesitate to snog him back this time.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he mumbles against her lips, voice low.

She nods, adding “And we’ll talk about… _all this_ , soon, okay?”

“Yes.” he agrees, placing one final kiss to her forehead.

On the drive home, Iris thinks about the way his lips tasted, the way he called her ‘babe’, the feel of his skin against hers and the knowledge that he’s as relentlessly hungry for her as she is for him, and nearly has an accident.


	5. Chapter 5

Now, there have already been numerous mornings during Iris’ time at Farleigh Heights when she’d rather get hit by a bus than face her Year 13 Literature class. But today… this really takes the cake.

Last night, after Louis’, she did a lot of thinking — she also did a lot of wanking, but that’s not the point — and now the reality which she’d been so insistent on ignoring is staring at her right in the eyes, tormenting, reminding her that their relationship is awful, wrong, and simply can’t continue to thrive, no matter how amazing it felt to finally make out with Louis on a ratty downstairs sofa.

This time, she’s decided, she’s going to put her foot down, not be all like ‘Hey, so our relationship won’t ever work and— oh, you want me to come over to yours tonight? Okay!’

No, she’s not going to fall victim to Louis’ alluring propositions and his playful eyes which make her want to kiss him silly. Not today, my friend. Because Iris is a mature adult, if you haven’t heard, and she’s got to end whatever she has going with Louis before it can grow into something impossible to walk away from.

It’s going to be difficult, and that’s why she’s dreading it with every cell in her body, but it’s also the responsible thing to do, which means she should really quit dawdling around her desk and get to her first class.

She’d been secretly hoping for Louis to be absent with some sort of illness today, primarily because she’s had butterflies fluttering in the pit of her stomach since the early hours of the morning at the thought of chatting to him about legal things and why she’s probably going to flee to Samoa. But unluckily for her, Louis is present as she welcomes the class into the room, giving her this look as he passes like they’re in on an inside joke that nobody else is.

‘Don’t.’, she feels like hissing at him, but is unable to due to lack of confidence and the fact that he’s gone as quickly as he came.

“Alright, so I’ve set the date of the essay for _Antony and Cleopatra_ to be in two weeks’ time. We’ll start planning for it soon but right now I want to collect your assignments which are due in this period.” she says first while writing the words ‘ESSAY: Monday, October 1 st’ on the board in red ink. “If you could all just get your books open and ready while I come around to collect them, that would be perfect.”

She begins weaving about the desks, retrieving the large horde of papers she has thrust at her. When she stops in front of Louis’ desk she holds out her hand, hoping for a completed assignment to be placed in it. But all she receives is this stupid knowing smile, his face practically saying ‘you know why I haven’t finished it, babe’, and can he please not?

Instead of grinning suggestively back at him, which she probably would’ve done if she didn’t still hold her last remaining morsel of self-control, Iris gives him a disappointed look before proceeding to the next student, and she mentally praises herself for her courage.

The rest of the lesson, she can’t help but take note of Louis’ sudden mood change and the looks he gives her when he thinks she’s not aware. He’s confused, because the Iris he’d befriended with over the past few weeks wouldn’t hesitate to joke around with him and offer him a smile cute enough to warm his heart for the next winter, not give him a cold, guilt-triggering stare. As if her glare is taking an effect, he suddenly feels ashamed of all the things they’d done last night, which is weird…, because he shouldn’t, right? He shouldn’t feel ashamed because Iris _wanted_ him to do all those things. Didn’t she?

The bell sounds, and Louis shakes the idea out of his head before picking up his books and promptly bolting towards the door.

“Louis?” he hears Iris say before he can reach out of earshot, and he turns back almost automatically, pleased to have an excuse to see her again, and also creating theories in his head of why exactly she’s holding him back. A quick make out session, he hopes.

“Yes?” he asks, walking up towards her with a ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Iris doesn’t reply at first, just purses her lips into a thin line as she looks over Louis’ shoulder, waiting for all the other students to leave so they can converse in private. Her brow creases as she watches Amanda, the last student to depart, close the door behind her, and then the words start flowing out like an endless stream.

“Lou, baby, we can’t do this. It’s wrong on so many levels and it— it just won’t end well for anybody and could get the both of us, especially me, into some serious, _serious_ shit, and—“

“Shh,  babe it’s okay.” Louis silences her, grasping her hips with his hands and pulling her forward roughly until their foreheads touch. “We can find a way to make it work.” he promises, nuzzling her cheek affectionately.

“N— No.” she objects firmly, using all her strength to push him away. His mouth falls open in disbelief at the rejection, and without any prior thought he tries again, attempting to wrap his arms around her small frame and snuggle into her warmth, only to be shoved away a second time. “Louis, someone could’ve seen that.” she says, gesturing to the open glass windows which offer a clear show of all that’s taking place in the small classroom.

“So what?” he shrugs, sitting down on one of the desks and dragging her down with him.

“Lou, I can’t—“ she begins, shaking her head swiftly.

“I don’t understand.” he intervenes firmly “You— _you kissed me back._ I— I thought you wanted this. I thought you—“

“Oh, I _do_ want this. Honestly, I really do. More than you can imagine.” she promises, grabbing one of his hands and squeezing it a little. “But we can’t. It just… it would never work.”

“But _why_ won’t it ever work?” Louis asks impatiently, shuffling closer and trying to curl his arm around her shoulders, only to be swatted away. “We could… we could see each other in private! It’ll be our little secret.”

“Do you know what’s at stake here, Louis?” Iris questions, and it’s the most serious he’s ever seen her; voice cold and eyes wide. “If we were to ever be caught, well, for starters I’d lose my job, be arrested most likely and basically have my whole teaching career ruined, and therefore my life ruined, so… no. I’m not doing this.”

Louis’ lower lip gapes open as he stares at her, unable to fathom the thought that after that wonderful first kiss the two had shared in his basement, Iris would want to stop seeing him the very next day. “B— but… but,” he stutters, trying to find a reason for her to change her mind other than burning desire. He knows she’s right, has known all this time, but their relationship had only just begun, and… and Louis was excited and hungry and _so fucking ready_ for it, and he feels as if he just watched a movie with a killer build up and climax but a lousy, disappointing ending.

Iris gives him a sympathetic look, knowing precisely what he’s feeling, before saying “And I think that this whole tutoring thing won’t work anymore, since… you know. So I’m going to contact an old friend of mine who also tutors. He might be able to help you.”

He nods back unenthusiastically, his eyes drooping towards the ground and mouth arched into a scowl. And _oh Louis, **baby**_ , Iris thinks, feeling an immediate urge to wrap him up in woolly blankets, brew him tea and snuggle with him. Instead, she stands up as a silent indication that the discussion’s over, and walks Louis to the door, feeling guilty that she’s dampened his mood significantly. Earlier he’d tumbled in with a smile on his face, happy to simply be in the vicinity of the girl he likes, and now he’s leaving all depressed and bitter and kind of angry. Iris did that. Iris ruined his day.

“Hey,” she says before he can make his exit, grasping one of his hands. He turns around and looks at their touching palms, their entwined fingers. “I really, _really_ do desperately want you, though. If that’s any help to your ego.” she tells him, because she feels like she has to make some sort of reconciliation to ensure he doesn’t spend the rest of the day moping around like a zombie.

Louis forces a smile and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “Do I get one final kiss then?” he asks hopefully, licking his lips.

“There are people watching, Louis.” Iris scoffs.

“No there aren’t.” he objects, not even offering a single glance out the window to prove his statement is correct.

“The assistant principal is on yard duty and he is looking straight at us. Like, honestly.” Iris laughs, peeking to the side.

“Fine, do I get a hug then?” Louis downsizes, holding his arms out.

“Still no. It’s not socially acceptable for teachers to hug their year 13 students, if you weren’t aware.”

He chuckles and looks as if he’s about to drop it, reaching out for the door handle, when he suddenly pauses, eyes focusing on something behind Iris.

“Store room?” he mumbles to her lowly, pulling his hand away from the door and instead letting it rest on her hips.

Iris is confused for a second, unable to make sense of the hidden proposal behind his sentence and frowning down at the point where he’s touching her. But then she realises and… _oh._ She nods quickly, turning towards a closed door at the back of the classroom. She’s not worried about the assistant principal, Mr Geller, catching sight of the too entering the store room, as he’d probably assume that Iris is simply taking Louis in to help gather some resources for a project of some sort, not to be pressed against a wall and have her neck kissed by him.

Louis trails happily behind her as she makes her way to the door, unable to hide the pleased grin which splits his mouth in two. Iris opens the door and they’re met with a compact, musty room, lined with shelves containing ancient textbooks and god knows what else. It’s tiny in perimeter, has no windows and is able to be locked; making it the perfect venue for the activity they plan on doing in here.

As soon as Louis’ shut the door behind them, he feels lips attacking his face, hands roaming over his school shirt.

“Mmmm,” he moans contently into the kiss, securing the eager girl in his arms and holding her up against a row of shelves. They continue to kiss passionately, and the room is soon filled with the sounds of moaning and panting and short, breathless mutters of words like ‘yeah’, ‘fuck’ and ‘babe’. And it’s only, what, the second time they’ve done this, and Iris already knows she’s going to miss it; miss the way his fingertips dig deeply into her skin, the way he’ll groan appreciatively every time she pulls on his hair.

Louis’ hand is situated dangerously high up her thigh, and when he begins to slowly creep it up her skirt, stroking her skin gently as he goes, Iris knows that this has gone too far and must come to an end.

She’s the one to abruptly pull away, making Louis’ hand jerk back, and before either of them can say anything, before she can catch her breath, she’s out; fleeing from the scene with a heavy, pounding heart and a voice in her head telling her _good one._

* * *

 

A month passes.

A month passes, and it doesn’t get any easier.

Well, never mind that; it was _always_ going to be hard. Iris knew that since the moment she first laid eyes on Louis Tomlinson. But it’s worse now, because he looks at her differently during class and she looks at him differently and whenever he asks for help it’s awkward and whenever they brush past each other it’s awkward and whenever they _see_ each other, it’s awkward.

So yes, it was always going to be difficult having an attractive student in her class. But knowing what it’s like to kiss him  and not being able to, knowing that he resents you for blocking him out of your life — that’s even more difficult.

His academic performance is dropping noticeably, too. Iris doesn’t blame Zayn, her old friend from Kingsley Grammar who she’d referred Louis to, for this change, as she knows that Zayn is excellent. It’s Louis who’s the problem; Louis, who’s been sulking around for four weeks solid.

“Louis, have you been going to tutoring?” she’d asked after class, only three days earlier.

In reply, he’d simply turned away, dropping his gaze to the floor and refusing to meet her eyes.

“You know, I’m friends with Zayn and he really is experienced in this field—“

“It’s not him who’s the problem.” he’d spat, crossing his arms over his chest.

“A— Alright. Then what is? The problem, I mean.”

He’d tilted his head back and breathed out a prolonged sigh, eyelashes fanning over his cheeks. “I just— _I want it to be you._ ”

Iris had groaned and dismissed him, and he’d rushed off without another word.

With all this occurring in her life, it’s no surprise that her mental state isn’t at its best. She hasn’t been her happiest lately, and what used to be her favourite class is now becoming more of an endurance test than a fun, pleasurable lesson.

Her friends have noticed her absence of energy and change of attitude, and are determined not to let it go untreated. So at the café they’re currently having lunch at, it’s no shock that Iris’ recent despair is the main topic of conversation.

“So, getting back together with him is completely out of the question, yes?” Niall asks through his buttery croissant. Having only heard the story of Iris’ dilemma involving her Literature student a mere two days ago, Niall is still wrapping his head around it all, firing questions at her which she’s sure she’s answered prior.

“Yes, I can’t risk being caught.” Iris agrees, swallowing her sip of steaming hot chocolate. “We weren’t even really together anyway,” she mumbles under her breath.

“So, what are ya going to do?” he says with interest, resting his chin on his cupped palm.

“I— I don’t know.” Iris mumbles sadly, sinking further into her chair. “I could just do nothing, I guess. I mean, what is to be done?”

“I dunno yet, but we have to do something. Zara and I, we hate seeing you like this. Don’t we, Zar?”

“Hmm?” Zara perks up at the mention of her name, finally tearing her eyes away from her phone screen. She’d been texting Eloise, her latest girlfriend, about details of their next date together, and frankly hadn’t been paying any attention to the conversation at all.

“We have to do something about the whole Iris/Louis thing, don’t we?” Niall repeats, taking another bite of his croissant.

“Oh!” Zara shrieks, banging her fists on the table excitedly, causing her two friends to lean in closer, and for a few heads to turn from other tables in the café.

“Do you have an idea?” Niall asks hopefully.

“Yes, no, I don’t know, just… shhhh. I just remembered something important.” she mutters quickly confusing both Iris and Niall. “So I was thinking about this whole thing with Louis the other day, right? And I got this idea that maybe you could, uh… I don’t know how to phrase this. _Have a distraction._ There. You have a distraction to, er, distract yourself and help you move on from him.”

“Alright,” Iris agrees sceptically, a little perplexed at Zara’s intense enthusiasm.

“So I got to work the next day, and I was just talking to this other model who I’d done a shoot with before,” she continues. Zara is a model. Not a household name supermodel, but she’s done her fair share of work for well-known brands. At the moment she’s working for stores like Topshop and, fittingly, Zara, as a model for their online catalogues. “And then I saw the photographer who I’d be working with, and he was really, _really_ cute. Like, I would’ve made a move, but… Eloise. Anyway, I just sort of thought for a moment and then it hit me; I could find out if he was single, and if so, convince him to go on a date with you.”

Iris just happened to be drinking her beverage at the time, and upon hearing Zara’s revelation, her entire mouthful spills back into her mug. “What!?” she splutters, eyes wide.

“Oh,” Zara responds, cupping her hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry, I… I should’ve asked you before I—“

“Before you what?”

“Before I… talked to him, and kind of… set the two of you up on a date.”

“Oh my god, Zara you did not just—“

“But his name’s Harry and he’s really nice and tall and dorky and quirky and _exactly your type._ And I even took the liberty of showing him a picture of you I had saved on my phone and he thinks you’re cute, so just… please?” Zara rambles, her eyes enlarging into those of a puppy dog’s.

Iris didn’t want to go through with Zara’s outrageous plan, had had enough of dating and romance and all things of the like for at least the next five months. But this was the only idea any of them had struck. And yes, maybe she was still a little mad at Zara for going out and doing such a thing without her permission, however it was her only clear chance of truly moving past the Louis incident, so that’s how she finds herself agreeing.

“Okay, I’ll do it.” Iris mutters eventually, shocking Zara.

“Really?” she splutters back in disbelief, voice wavering.

“Yes,” she confirms with a firm nod of the head, before casually taking another sip of her beverage.

“Uh, okay then. So, I arranged for the two of you to meet at this club next Saturday. I’ll text you the address and Harry’s number later, yeah?”

“Sure.” Iris responds, shrugging as if it’s nothing. On the inside, however, two voices in her head are discussing this decision; one satisfied that she’s made a start on trying to forget her brief affair with her student and proceed to pursue boys closer to her own age, the other still somewhat unsure.

“So now that that’s settled,” Niall starts, pushing his chair backwards and standing up. For the duration of Iris and Zara’s debate, he’d been nibbling away at his jam-filled croissant, watching his two friends with interest as they rowed. At the indication that everything was going to be fine, he’d checked his watch, discovering that he should’ve left a good ten minutes ago for work, and decided he’d best leave, glad at the confirmation that Iris’ love life was getting back on track. “I’d better be off.”

“You have work today?” Zara asks, peering up at him quizzically.

“Yeah,” Niall answers simply, fixing up the collar of his jacket.

“Who’s playing tonight?” Iris asks as she sets her mug down on the varnished wooden table. Niall is a sound engineer, meaning he ensures the audio quality of concerts is at its best. Half the reason he took the job was that he gets to see so many of his favourite artists live without paying a cent, and even, if he’s lucky, meet a few backstage. Plus, he’s able to occasionally hook his friends up with great seats to some of the year’s most anticipated shows.

“The Script.” Niall answers, smiling “Irish band. Should be fun. Anyway, better be goin’. Shoulda left ten minutes ago.”

“See ya.” Iris says, offering a quick wave goodbye before downing the rest of her mug.

“Don’t have too much fun without us!” Zara adds, shouting over the noise of the café.

“Do you think he knows he’s got jam all over his chin?” Iris asks once he’s pushed open the door and left with a chiming of a bell.

“Just leave it.” Zara answers, sniggering.

* * *

 

 _Who the fuck comes up with club names these days? Honestly,_ she thinks as she peers up at the block-like building. The club is simply called ‘One’. _Real creative genius there._

She’s just joined the exceedingly long queue of people snaked around the building, and is wondering when exactly her date will decide to show up. If you ask her, the whole thing is poorly organised, because she doesn’t even know what Harry looks like, for god’s sake — aside from the fact that he’s tall — so how’s she going to know who’s him? She has to rely on Harry spotting her, as according to Zara, he’d been shown a picture of Iris (she can only hope it wasn’t an image of her during her black hair faze, when she wore eyeliner thicker than twigs and still sported her nose ring), but it’s dark and there are hordes of people blocking her view and she truly doubts that Harry will be able to recognise her through the inconveniences.

She pulls her coat closer to her chest, teeth rattling from the mid October breeze. A girl in a cocktail dress who’s standing in the group in front of her shrieks something obscene, and she genuinely considers ditching.

Just when she's about to pocket her phone and call it a night, she sees a gangly figure jogging — almost stumbling — their way over. The approaching figure commonly goes by the name Harry Styles, and he’s highly aware that he’s running late to his date, and also doesn’t care in the slightest that he’s bumping into people as he weaves his way over, doesn’t care that he’s making heads turn.

With one final leap, Harry lands at his date’s feet and pants “Iris?”, resting his hand against a nearby lamp post for support.

Now, when Zara had mentioned that this ‘Harry’ was going to be attractive, her expectations weren’t particularly high, as previously established, Zara and Iris’ tastes in men are polar opposites. But this, well.

Atop his head is one giant mess of unruly, chestnut coloured curls, which flop down to cover a portion of his face. His eyes are the loveliest shade of green, and remind Iris of moss growing in an evergreen forest. He has heart shaped lips, and cheeks which dimple as he grins. He’s wearing a simple t-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans which look tight enough to be painted on, and she feels vaguely as if she’s overdressed for the occasion, thinking about the strappy black dress she has hidden underneath her expensive overcoat.

Once she’s finally done gawking — quite conspicuously, gathering from the way he’s looking at her — over his appearance, Iris is able to acknowledge his presence by doing something like, hmm let’s see… greeting him, perhaps?

“Hi, uh… yeah, it’s Iris…uh, you must be Harry?” she fumbles out, unable to behave normally because she’s still shocked and surprised and trying to get over how cute Harry is and how he just tumbled his way over here in his ridiculously skinny jeans without a fucking care in the world. She absolutely loves it.

“Yeah, ‘m Harry.” he says, his accent deep and rich and proper. He extends a hand towards the very dumbfounded Iris, and gives her hand a nice solid shake, while she’s practically turned to jelly. “Sorry I’m so late. Traffic was bonkers.” he adds, looking sheepish.

“Oh no, it’s fine really,” she gushes, smiling wider than necessary, “I haven’t been waiting for long,” she lies. She’s been here for at least over twenty minutes.

“Good. I was worried I was keeping you out here in the cold.” he says, shivering a bit to emphasize the terrible weather.

“You shouldn’t’ve. It’s fine,” Iris brushes off once again, snuggling into her coat.

“So, how do you know Zara?” he asks, digging his hands into his pockets as they move a bit further up the queue.

“She’s uh, a friend of mine. We’ve known each other since high school and have basically just stuck with each other ever since.” she explains, shrugging. “So, um, what’s being a photographer like?” she asks, since it’s the only fact she’s known about him prior.

“At the moment, pretty dull. Like, when I wanted to be a photographer, I didn’t really envision myself taking photos of models in basic tank tops and jean shorts every day. But, as good as freelance photography sounds, I know that this is what brings home the money.” he admits.

“Yeah,” she agrees, without really agreeing since she doesn’t know what that’s like, being in a profession where you have to choose between cash and creativity.

“So what do you do?” he asks, turning to her with interest.

“I’m a secondary school teacher.” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. From the corner of her eye she spots Harry wrinkling her nose up in disgust “What?” she asks, chuckling.

“You wanted to go back _there_?” he asks in disbelief, referring to the hormone-abundant, rowdy circus that is high school.

“Not really,” she admits, laughing. Harry smiles back, and Iris can’t help but take note of how amazing he looks with his floppy hair and his dimple-revealing smile and the neon light from the club’s signage illuminating his face perfectly. “No, I just…I always knew that I wanted to be a teacher. But I’m awful with little kids, so primary schools were quickly ruled out, and then it just kinda… happened. I guess.”

He nods in understanding, looking to the concrete beneath them. “So what exactly do you teach?”

“English, mostly. Bit of History, too. I specialise in Literature, though. It’s what I studied at uni.”

“I’ve always thought literature to be kinda similar to photography, you know.” he adds

“How so?”

“Well, like, literature’s all about books and telling stories, right? And in photography, that’s what you do — you make your photo tell a story.” he elaborates, shrugging.

“I do agree with you, ‘cept I don’t write stories.” she replies.

“You don’t?”

“No, I just teach kids how to. Pretend I know what I’m talking about. You know, _those who can’t do, teach._ ” she says modestly. “But anyway, I do think photography’s a bit different. It’s more technical, right? You’ve got stuff like aperture, and…”

“Shutter speed? Yeah, I guess so. But writing has that to, I think. You know: characterisation, symbolism. That sorta stuff.”

“I guess.” she nods, pursing her lips.

“In all honesty, I have no idea what those words mean. I’m just listing all I remember my Year 11 English teacher telling me.” he chuckles, turning to her with that same cute-as-fuck smile, and it’s just getting harder to deal with, honestly.

With both of them laughing now, it’s hard to notice that they’ve reached the front of the line, and that they’re actually seconds away from entering the club and truly beginning their date together.

“’s a bit of a weird name, innit? _One._ ” he says, pointing up at the neon signage.

“I was thinking the exact same thing before you came.” she mutters as the bouncer gestures them inside.

“I once saw a club called ‘He’s not here’.” he comments while Iris begins to shrug off her coat, finding the atmosphere of the entrance much warmer than the outdoors.

After dropping her coat off at the cloakroom (and maybe catching Harry checking her out in her purposely revealing strappy black dress), the two follow the signs pointing towards the actual nightclub entrance, eventually landing at the top of a set of industrial-like, metal stairs, leading to flashing lights and pounding music.

“After you,” Harry says, gesturing for her to lead the way. And with his presence hovering strongly behind her, the scent of his cologne filling her nose, Iris has a feeling it’s going to be a pretty memorable night.

It starts at the bar, where they order their first drinks to kick off the evening, Harry insisting he pays. Continuing their quest of getting to know each other, they begin to talk about family, and how Harry grew up in a small town in Cheshire with his mother, step-dad and older sister Gemma. Iris mentions her older brother Marcus, who lives in Kent with his wife and newborn son, and her younger sister Abby, who’s in her final year of high school.

Somehow, her cat Florence is mentioned, and she learns by the way his eyes brighten that Harry has an interest in cats which mirrors her own. It sparks a conversation which is probably sad to have at a bar in a trendy club in downtown Manchester, but they’re okay to talk about domesticated felines just fine. He even goes on to tell her that he’s part of a Facebook group called ‘Catspotting’, where a bunch of cat lovers share cute photos of cats they’ve found loitering about the streets. To finish it off, he suggests setting up a playdate between Florence and his cat Betsy, and Iris doesn’t even dwell on the fact that he’s more than fine with meeting up with her again. It’s only been, what, twenty minutes into the date, and he already likes her that much. Yeah, you could say they get along well.

When the contents of their glasses has been consumed, Harry orders a second round of drinks, and this time they start to get a bit tipsy. Now loose, the two are able to flirt more easily; gentle brushes of skin, playful teasing and Iris batting her eyelashes.

They decide to make their way towards the dance floor, and without the worry of looking ridiculous, they dance; tripping over each other and laughing all the while.

Soon growing tired, they find a lounge on the outskirts of the club and take a seat, Harry leaving briefly to purchase them both another drink. They talk for a little while longer, the physical distance between them lessening and lessening as the night drags on.

Iris can’t remember exactly how it happened. There was a lull in the conversation, she vaguely recalls. And then Harry was kissing her. Straight-up kissing her with no hesitation whatsoever. And Iris doesn’t even mind, because Harry’s serving his exact purpose at the moment, making her completely forget the reason why this little outing was set up by her best friend. She hasn’t even thought of Louis once, is too consumed on Harry with his curls and his flirtatious ways.

 _Harry is here,_ she tells herself. Harry is here and he’s available and he’s her age and he likes her back and he’s kissing her and her parents wouldn’t frown if she took him home. Harry is stable.

The kiss is a bit wet and sloppy, gathering that they’re both on the verge of drunkenness. And when Iris pulls away, eyes bright and pupils enlarged and lips glazed, Harry simply mutters “Oh, sod it,” before taking her hand and pulling her towards the bathrooms. Iris allows herself to be dragged, her mind repeating the words _Harry is here and he is stable._

Busting through the door of the ladies room while in the midst of a messy kiss, like two proper twenty something year olds about to have sex with someone they’ve only just met, they head towards a cubical and stumble through. They’re treating this date a bit like a one-night-stand now, but neither of them can be arsed to care; are too worked up and in need of something to make this night worthwhile.

Breathing heavily while planting kisses to every stretch of skin they can find, Harry begins to zip Iris out of her dress while she works at his fly, their fingers fumbling from the excitement and adrenaline of it all. Once all necessary clothing is removed, Harry takes her against the cubical wall; quick, deep thrusts which have her screaming as she tugs on his damp curls. And Iris refuses to care; refuses to care that this will probably be something she regrets the following morning when she wakes up with hickeys scattered about the most impractical places and a conscience yelling at her for being so stupid.

A few minutes of loud moans and choked-off whimpers later and they’re both coming with a shout. Iris drops back to her feet and catches her breath while Harry begins to tug his pants back up. It’s then that she realises they didn’t use a condom, but she isn’t too worried as she is on the pill.

After fully redressing and collecting their coats from the cloakroom, they laugh as they make their way out of the club, and Harry hails for a cab to take Iris home.

“So, even though we treated this night a bit like a one-night-stand,” he starts, looking sheepish as he chews on his lip. “I’d like to see you again, if that’s fine by you.”

“Sure,” Iris agrees, smiling contently “I’d like that.”

She doesn’t even know if she’s being serious or not, and is frankly too influenced by alcohol to care. But oh well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise that when we get to the actual smut it'll be more detailed than that aha


	6. Chapter 6

Waking up with a groan and a full body stretch which causes her skull to hit the headboard, Iris lies in the stillness of her flat, hands resting over her stomach and eyes focused on her ceiling fan, spinning around rapidly.

“Fuck,” she says simply, continuing to stare “Oh fuck wank bugger shitting arseheaded hole.”

Whatever happened last night, in that sweaty club with the flashing lights which irritated her retinas and the toilet cubical with the foul stench and elaborate drawing of a penis on the wall, is definitely something she deeply regrets.

She might’ve had a few more drinks than she’d planned, meaning her memories of the previous night are a bit blurred and jumpy. But she does remember having sex with Harry; remembers the look on both their faces when they decided to just throw the night away and fuck, the temporary relief when they finally did  — when Harry’s cock slid into her and silenced that voice in her head, feeding her an ever-growing list of things to worry about.

And with her reaction time slower and judgement impaired, it had felt good. Relaxing, even.

This morning, however, ‘good’ is the least likely word she’d use to describe her feelings about last night’s date.

There are hickeys on her neck and jaw, poised there as little reminders of how she fucked up, and also certifying some highly complex scarf adjusting to ensure nobody asks. There’s also the chance that she might’ve acquired an STI, since a condom wasn’t used, so lucky her. And then there’s also the fact that Harry had wanted to see her again; that unlike her, he wasn’t seizing the night as an opportunity to say ‘fuck all’ and forget about his worries by exhilarating himself with sex with a total stranger — that he was actually, despite being drunk off his arse, looking for something serious. And Iris had stupidly gone and agreed with him, was too drunk and sated from the joy of being fucked senseless to even register what she was getting herself into.

With one final curse word she starts wriggling her way off the mattress, kicking away her blankets. In her exhausted and hungover state, she finds herself falling off the side of her bed, and before her reflexes can interfere she’s crashing onto the hard, wooden floor with a yelp. She hears a hissing sound, and it takes her a good ten seconds to come to her senses and realise that she’s landed on Florence’s tail.

“’M sorry.” she mumbles, absentmindedly reaching out to pet her cat’s head “You’re master’s a bit hungover at the moment.”

Florence just lets out another hiss before stalking off with her tail hung high. Even her cat is mad at her.

Sighing, she lifts herself off the ground, her hand immediately reaching up to nurse the heavy pounding in the fore of her head. She makes her way out of her bedroom, leaping over the clutter on her floor which never seems to leave. Upon entering the kitchen she opens the fridge, the constant buzzing noise irritating her sensitive ears, and pulls out a carton of milk before twisting the cap off and taking a swig.

She has papers to mark today. 

She guesses that if her students knew what she went through on Saturday, they mightn’t mind receiving their grades back a week later.

Once she returns the milk to the fridge she huffs, surveying her flat in search of something to occupy her tired mind for the next twelve hours. Spending the day lazing on her bed starts to seem heavenly, and she’s just about to journey back to her mattress when she catches sight of her phone, sitting on the kitchen counter and buzzing at the news of a new text message. Curios, she walks over to it and discovers the sender of the message to be ‘Harry’. Taking a brief moment to wonder how the fuck he got her number, she remembers Zara and her matchmaking plans, and figures that she would’ve given it to him. Unlocking her phone, she traces her eyes over the text, her mind barely able to register what all the letters mean.

_Had a lot of fun last night :) Are you up for a coffee this afternoon? — Harry x._

And _oh no_. Iris is gonna make a promise to herself to never see Harry again for the rest of her existence.

* * *

 

She may take that back.

See, it’s been three or so weeks since that night at the club which had Iris sure she’d never embark in one-night-stands ever again, and quite a lot has happened.

For one, Iris eventually did agree to that coffee date, believe it or not. Her reason being that she needed caffeine and she was out of instant coffee and hadn’t any NoDoz tablets lying around and Harry wasn’t that bad of a person and it wouldn’t hurt if she saw him again, just this once, and pretended to have interested in whatever conversational topic he covered as she downed her coffee as quickly as she could and tried to find some sort of abrupt excuse to leave early.

But the afternoon in the café Harry had picked, spent hidden away in a little lounge in the corner by the fireplace, had been nothing but a pleasure. Because Harry is _ridiculously_ nice, and it seemed as if the morning after their first date, she’d forgotten that fact amongst the insistent pounding in her head, telling her that what they did in that compact toilet cubical was a mistake.

And with Harry sitting opposite her in his khaki jacket, skinny jeans and Chelsea boots, talking about photography and cats and his favourite films as he sipped on his coffee, Iris couldn’t help but smile. 

She quite likes him, she’s decided. The attraction is real and has been since he first came bounding up to her like a complete klutz, so she can’t deny that. But this is a different attraction. Unlike her intense (and sadly ever-lingering) attraction to Louis -- which had her wanting to have sex with him at midnight and then stay up late talking about space and the stars and things greater than life itself, snuggled up in blankets with leftover takeaway pizza -- this attraction to Harry has her thinking _I could show you off to my friends and take you back to my hometown and everyone will think we’re so cute together. We could be a power couple, if we wanted to._

So now, roughly a month after they met, their relationship had developed into something a bit more serious. And one weekend, when Harry is over and Iris is talking to her mother on the phone, discussing plans for the upcoming Blackstone family Christmas (it’s only mid-November, but Iris’ mum has always been a perfectionist), without realising it she drops the ‘boyfriend’ word, and Harry smiles over at her from the other side of the couch.

And it’s nice having a _boyfriend –_ someone to text during her breaks at work, to snuggle up with on cold, late autumn nights, and to most importantly, tend to her sexual needs. It’s nice to get back into the swing of serious relationships after being single for six months. Plus, she loves the way Harry will pamper her by taking her out to surprise dates (often cheap, since he’s still a struggling photographer, but lovely enough to make her invite him upstairs when it’s that time of night) after long days at work, how he’ll woo her with creative romantic gestures which only he could pull off.

At the moment, however, Harry isn’t treating her to anything particularly special. No, they’re spending their Saturday morning grocery shopping together, because they’re lame like that, and both possess fridges lacking basic food items. They’ve been roaming through the supermarket aisles, tossing cans, packets and cartons into their own shopping baskets, sometimes into each other’s.

It started when Harry threw a punnet of cherry tomatoes into Iris’ basket, and she hates tomatoes, which caused for her to get him back by slipping a jar of pickled onions into his. The whole morning has been continuing like that; Harry’s basket becoming a brief home to a pair of pantyhose, dog kibble, tampons and powdered mashed potatoes (which are the grossest thing ever, if you weren’t aware), and hers to men’s aftershave, even more tomato based products and some denture sterilizing solution.

With Iris having just filled Harry’s basket with a large pack of nappies, they decide to end the joke there and continue grocery shopping in peace before someone goes too far.

She’s in the dairy section, surveying the selection of cheeses, while he’s around the corner putting the nappies back in their correct place and also searching for the Jaffa cakes, which he’d forgotten to add to his basket earlier. She’s eyeing the feta cheese, wondering if it’ll be worth buying or if it’ll just rot at the back of her fridge for eight months.

 _I could put it in a salad. Or maybe on top of a gourmet pizza,_ she thinks, chewing her lip in indecisiveness. _Yeah, ‘cause I’m totally gonna make a gourmet pizza_ , a voice in her head says sarcastically, and with that conclusion she proceeds towards the milk fridges.

She stands in front of them, debating whether she should stick to whole milk or buy this organic milk they’re advertising, which is more expensive but apparently better for you.

“’scuse me,” she hears from behind her, and realising she’s blocking the way, promptly steps aside, eyes landing on the owner of the voice.

She nearly has an aneurism, because it’s Louis. Adorable Louis, wearing skinny jeans, an oversized woolly jumper and a faint smile as he pulls open the fridge door and reaches for the cheapest carton. Louis, the boy who’d kissed her silly in his basement and made her feel so warm and lovely inside, despite the fact that it was all illegal. Louis, who’s the sole reason her relationship with Harry came to be; a distraction, a way of forgetting about him, distancing herself from him.

And now here he is. Right in front of her. Reaching for a carton of Tesco whole milk.

She’s gobsmacked at first; can’t even process the information, let alone speak to him. But then, quite hesitantly, come the words.

“ _Louis?_ ”

His head snaps towards her at that, his hand pausing in mid-air, and Iris presumes that he hadn’t noticed it when he’d politely asked for her to move aside, had just thought he was speaking to some other random girl with curly brown hair and an affinity for Peter Pan collars, skirts, and patterned tights, by the way his eyes widen after doing a double take in true cartoon fashion.

As recognition hits, his lower lip begins to tremble, as if he’s trying to say something, he’s just not sure what. Finally, after letting it all sink in, he voices “Iris?”, quite questionably, as if he’s not sure if he can call her by her first name anymore, and that maybe he should go back to calling her ‘Miss’.

“What are you doing here?” she laughs, her voice sweet as honey as a wide smile breaks across her face. She doesn’t want this to be awkward, like it was probably going to be if she didn’t interfere with fake smiles and enthusiasm. There’s enough tension at school, where Louis will raise his hand and Iris will try to find every excuse not to tend to his needs. And she’s not sure that she can handle that tautness night now, in the dairy section of Tesco early on a Saturday morning. So she’s going to pretend everything’s okay, maybe act like they’re friends again. And Louis might be dumb enough to believe it.

 _What are you doing here,_ she mocks herself. _What do you think he’s doing here? It’s the supermarket. He’s buying milk. What else could he be doing?_

 _But isn’t he, like, seventeen? Should he have those responsibilities just yet?_ A new voice asks, and yeah, okay. Her question still stands.

“Just getting some milk,” he responds simply, that faint smile now returning to his lips, pleased that Iris is being friendly towards him at least. He finally grabs the carton of milk he’d been leaning towards and closes the door with his hip, turning his whole body towards her. “We were running low so me mum sent me out.” He shrugs with a playful gleam in his deep blue irises as he eyes her up and down. Iris has accepted that he’ll probably never stop checking her out, and she’s kind of okay with that. “What about you?”

“Oh, I’m just uh, doing the weekly shop.” She shrugs, gesturing towards her basket while sounding a quiet, uncomfortable laugh.

Louis nods in understanding, and a lull takes place in the conversation, making it quite unbearable for the both of them. While Iris chews on her lip and shifts her gaze to the side, Louis smooths out the creases in his jeans and swallows the lump in his throat.

“So, how are you?” he asks eventually, coughing to excuse the crack in his voice. And Louis has been seeing Iris nearly every day at school, so it should seem dumb to ask a question like that. But this is different. This feels like they’ve only just bumped into each other two months after that makeout session in the store cupboard, because all those other in between meetings and short conversations at school don’t count. That’s them talking student to teacher. And this… this is them talking person to person.

“I’m good.” Iris responds, nodding as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, I’ve been…good.” She repeats, feeling lame that she couldn’t come up with anything else. She’s not lying; things have been good lately. But there just this emptiness sometimes which makes her wonder if this is what she truly wants, makes her question all her decisions.

“That’s uh, that’s good.” Louis says, nodding along with her, and it’s so painfully awkward that Iris might actually cry. “How’s… how’s Zara? That friend of yours?” he asks, and oh god, they’ve only be talking for what, less than a minute? And they can’t even chat about only themselves for that period of time, and are already moving on to other people.

Iris hates this; hates how ever since that conversation which had ended up in the store cupboard, when Iris had highlighted all the reasons why the two could never be a couple, there’s just been this thick, unexplained tension between them which refuses to subside.

When she’d broken things off with him earlier on, before they could grow too attached, she’d thought she could avoid this tension; that maybe they could forget about the whole ordeal and go back to being friends. But that’s not what has happened. It’s the opposite. Louis is sulky and bitter during classes, and even now, when he’s retrieving attention from Iris -- the girl he fancies so fucking much --which isn’t based around coursework and tutoring, he’s still not completely satisfied and bothering to make an effort, because it’s _still_ not the attention he wants. He wants Iris to be curled up in his arms, wants her to be kissing him passionately, muttering sweet nothings into his ear. And Iris just can’t offer that. That’s final.

“Yeah, she’s good. Got a lot of work at the moment. She’s a model. I don’t think I told you.” She replies, speaking about her best mate, when really all that’s running through her head are the questions ‘Why hasn’t he moved on yet? Why is he still so… iffy around me?’.

 _But how could he have moved on?_ Another voice objects. _He made out with his Literature teacher in his basement. It’s not like that happens to him every goddamn day._

And yes, true. Plus, she can’t really talk, as she hasn’t managed to move on either. But this has been dragging on for two months now, this refusal to let go, and Iris wants to be the one to make the first move, to walk away from it in hope that Louis will do the same. But right now, looking at Louis, with his vibrant blue eyes and his fluffy hair and his cute, woolly sweater, she simply can’t bring herself to. He’s too cute, she’s decided.

“Oh, no you didn’t tell me. That’s pretty cool.” Louis says, lips curving into this adorable little smile, and she swears she nearly does it; swears she nearly says ‘fuck it’ and kisses him in the dairy section of Tesco, forgets about all the stupid feelings and complications that are keeping them apart and just pushes him against one of the fridges and presses her lips to his.

And she probably would’ve, if reality hadn’t have been waiting just around the corner, preparing to slap her in the face.

“I found the Jaffa cakes, kitten!”

Oh. Right. Harry. Her boyfriend.

He appears from behind a shelf stocked with canned soup, grinning as he approaches her. He hasn’t even taken notice of Louis -- who’s currently seething at him due to the pet name he’d just used to address Iris -- he’s so entranced by his girlfriend. Curling an arm around her shoulders and giving her a side hug, he places a quick kiss to the side of her head before tossing a packet of Jaffa cakes into her basket.

But Iris is stiff; limbs gone rigid as she watches Louis, _jealous_ Louis – the same one who shot daggers at Mr Hammond’s back outside the staffroom not too long ago --, clench his jaw and narrow his eyes. She knows why he’s acting this way, and it’s not only because of the kiss.

_‘Kitten’._

Iris will admit, when Harry first used that pet name on her, she hadn’t felt that same warmth in her insides, didn’t melt or swoon. He’d first used it as replacement of what he’d originally wanted to call her – ‘babe’. It just didn’t sound right, Harry calling her ‘babe’. It’s almost as if that name is reserved for Louis. That Louis, and Louis only, can refer to her as his babe. So when Iris complained about the pet name, Harry quickly resorted to kitten, because they both love cats and Iris is soft and cute and will crawl up into his lap when she’s cold. And she can tolerate Harry calling her ‘kitten’, at least.

Louis, however, can’t, judging from the way his grip tightens around the milk carton he’s clutching, the way his top lip is turning up, as if he’s trying to hold back a snarl. As if he’s trying with all his might not to hold Iris to his chest possessively and start growling at Harry.

 _How dare_ this random curly haired twat refer to Iris as his _‘kitten’,_ is probably what’s running through Louis’ head. _How fucking dare he._

“Who’s this?” Harry asks her, finally acknowledging Louis’ presence. He doesn’t seem too concerned that Iris was just conversing with the young boy, which, for whatever reason, upsets Louis, because _shouldn’t he be a threat? Competition?_ But of course he isn’t. He’s just some fucking kid.

“Oh.” Iris says, mouth gaping open, because here we go again – an occasion where she has to put a label on him, when honestly she’d much rather refer to him as plain and simple ‘Louis’. “This is Louis, my, uh…” she starts, trying to find the correct word. Louis’ left eyebrow quirks upwards, challenging her, and she wants to run away and hide in a tent of shame because he actually looks pissed. Not specifically at Harry this time, but towards her also. It looks like he’s been… betrayed. “My student. And Louis, this is Harry, my boyfriend.”

Iris feels the need to apologise repeatedly as the expression on Louis’ face turns to one of pure sadness. He looks so broken, like the words have physically injured him. Everything about him just drops; his face, his shoulders, his head. Iris thought she’d seen him at his sulkiest the day she explained why the two of them could never date, but this is just a whole other level.

And it’s a good thing that Harry is to absorbed in Iris to notice, and instead of paying much attention to the inwardly weeping boy, mindlessly sticks his hand out for a polite shake, mutters a ‘nice to meet you’ and then leans down to softly whisper something about buying a few romantic candles for tonight’s shag into Iris’ ear.

Iris doesn’t reply, is only focused on the sight in front of her which is slowly tearing her heart in two. It’s awful, seeing Louis like this and knowing she’s the reason for it. So awful, that she knows she has to get away before it’ll prompt her to do something ludicrous, like, for example, kiss him as reconciliation. Because she knows she wants to; knows that she’d give anything to feel his lips on hers again, to be able to scurry her hands through his impossibly soft hair.

“Uh, right, well… It’s nearly eleven and I’ve still got a few more papers to mark so should we be off?” she asks Harry, trying not to sound too hopeful, when really she’s itching to exempt herself from the tense atmosphere of the dairy section.

“Yeah, I think so,” Harry agrees, talking in that slow manner of his.

“Nice running into you, Louis,” she says to him cheerfully, “I’ll see you on Monday, yeah?”

Louis nods and mutters a ‘See ya’, and the couple exclude themselves from the aisle lined with fridges, making their way towards the checkout.

And Iris might look over her shoulder a few times as she’s whisked away. And her heart might break just a little more every time she discovers Louis standing there alone, appearing as what she would call, the pure essence of loneliness.

* * *

 

“God,” Harry pants, lips parting from hers with a wet, smacking sound. He follows it up with a deep moan when Iris tugs on a handful of his hair, pulling him impossibly closer, before sinking her teeth down on his bottom lip. It’s a mix of pain and pleasure which has him whimpering whilst holding onto her tighter, splaying his fingers out wider so there’s more of her to touch.

“So delicate.” Iris mutters, smiling as she places a light kiss at the hinge of his jaw.

“Well let’s see how you take it, hmm?” Harry mumbles as he cups her cheeks in two hands and forces their lips back together, mirroring what she did to him earlier by nibbling on her lip. She lets out a whine, beginning to squirm, and okay, fair enough.

It’s been a few days since Iris bumped into Louis at the supermarket, and she’s quite unsure as to what the fuck she’s doing.

See, when Iris had first met Harry, she’d felt this…this flame. A connection. Similar to the one she shares with Louis, yet far smaller in comparison. And it was because of this fire that she’d kept him around; gave him a chance. But seeing Louis like that, being reminded of how much he wants her, how much he cares about her, and how much _she_ wants _him_ , it just feels as if the flame between her and Harry has been extinguished.

Alas, she has no clue what she’s doing at this current point in time, but Harry’s cock is still big and he’s pretty masterful at sex, so he serves as the perfect distraction; a way of forgetting the blue eyed boy.

That’s why she’s here, right now, kicking off her shoes as she plants soft, feather-like kisses along Harry’s jaw.

He sounds a low moan of approval as she continues her trail, eyes closed and fully content. He strokes her hair affectionately as praise, and Iris can’t help but smile.

“How do you feel about me?” Harry mumbles out of nowhere, and Iris actually has to stop and look up, she’s that surprised.

“What?” she laughs, deciding to let it pass by resuming her line of kisses, hoping that they’re good enough to consume Harry and make him forget about the question he’s just posed.

Sadly, he doesn’t. Instead, he starts to pry her away, sits up, pulls her in so she’s straddling him and presses their foreheads together. “No, really, we haven’t talked about how we feel about each other. I think we should.” He says, caressing her cheek.

Iris sighs, not in the mood to delve into this topic, worried that the truth is going to slip past her. “You know how I feel about you,” she replies playfully, pushing him back down onto the cushions of the couch, leaning down for a kiss.

Harry immediately retaliates, however, and holds her back before she can press her lips to his, returning them to their original sitting position. “Yeah, except I don’t.” he says, laughing a little to make it seem more light-hearted, when Iris knows perfectly well that he’s being serious here.

“How do _you_ feel about _me_?” she asks to avoid the question, again attempting to continue the lovebite she’d just started on his neck.

“Hey, you can’t answer my question with another question. That’s not fair.” He whines, but this time allows her to keep working at his neck, thinking that maybe she’s uncomfortable talking about this sort of thing face to face, and would rather mumble her feelings into his skin.

She doesn’t say anything, however, just maintains a firm avoidance of the subject, not sure if she wants to enlighten Harry with the true reason why she’s with him. A crease splits Harry’s brow, and now he’s not just mildly irritated, he’s actually concerned.

“Iris, you’ve been… you’ve been acting different for the past few days.” He points out, pulling her face back to convey that he’s not going to let this go that easily. And Iris tries with all her might to hide the fear brewing inside her; the fear that Harry’s going to find out, realise that their relationship isn’t as honest as it seems.

“How so?” she asks, tilting her head to the side innocently.

“You just… it’s like you don’t want to talk to me anymore. All you want to do is… is shag,” he admits, mouth curving into a slight smile as he mentions the slang for sex. “And, I—“

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Iris asks, grinning at him cheekily.

“In some aspects, yes.” He chuckles, gently grazing her cheek with the tips of his fingers. “But… I like talking to you. I really do. And our relationship shouldn’t be just about sex, don’t you think?”

Iris nods, yet doesn’t voice any reply, just casts her gaze downwards, too ashamed to even look at him.

“Would you please tell me what’s wrong, kitten?” he pleads, placing his hand over her shoulders and shaking her gently, as if it will get an answer out of her.

But still, nothing.

As mentioned before, Iris isn’t too fond of lying to people, and it pains her that every time she sees she’s Harry, she can’t help but think ‘wow, he has no idea’. And it’s become more and more difficult as the days drag on, and questions like ‘how long is this going to continue?’, ‘how long will it take before I get over Louis?’ and ‘what if I never do?’, start to emerge in that worried little mind of hers.

She hates seeing Harry like this, dreads the thought of this continuing; their whole relationship being a lie. She can’t keep leading him on forever. Honesty is what she needs.

“Harry, I—“ she starts, trying to find the words.

“What, kitten?” he prompts in a soft voice, soothingly rubbing her back. “Tell me.”

Swallowing thickly, she emits a deep sigh before saying, “Harry, you’re… you’re just a distraction. I’m only using you for sex.”

And there’s just this moment of emptiness where everything suddenly feels completely still. She watches the words fathom on Harry’s face; the realisation, the hurt, the anger, and finally, the acceptance.

“Okay,” he says, shocking her entirely. “Okay,” and it’s more of a whisper now, like he’s talking to nobody but himself. “Wow. Okay.”

“I’m sorry!” Iris bursts, the tears arriving fast, staining her cheeks with the residue of her charcoal mascara “I shouldn’t have done it. It was incredibly stupid of me and I just—“

“It’s okay.” Harry promises, sliding out from underneath her, reaching for his shoes. And he’s said ‘okay’ so many times that Iris is worried that it’s lost its meaning, and that it’s not okay at all. “It doesn’t matter anyway.” He shrugs as he slips on his shoes. She can’t help but want to hug him because he’s being the nicest possible person about it ever, and she frankly doesn’t deserve that.

“I really am sorry—“

“What was I a distraction from, if you don’t mind me asking?” he asks, turning towards the couch where she’s situated, streaks of diluted black glistening down her cheeks, eyes red and puffy.

“A— another guy.” She chokes out, unable to look him in the eye.

“That guy from the supermarket the other day,” Harry starts, and every muscle in Iris’ body tenses up. “He isn’t a student, is he?”

“No,” she breathes, even though he is, she just doesn’t want to reveal his identity as that if Harry knows she’s had romantic relations with him. “How… how’d you know?”

“I’m not blind. I saw the way the two of you were looking at each other.” He explains, grabbing his coat from the hook. He slips his arms through the holes and fixes up his collar before turning to her and saying, quite firmly, “I think you better get off your arse and go win him back.”

And then he’s gone.

* * *

 

“Oh…OH… ** _OH!_** Did you see that Iris?! He just missed an open goal!”

Currently, there’s a huge contrast between Iris and, well, not just Niall, but every single other person in the entire stadium at the moment. While the majority of football fans are leaping out of their seats, either elated that a player from the opposing team missed an easy opportunity, or groaning in agony, hiding their faces in their hands, Iris is doing neither.

Instead, she’s blank faced, zoned out and staring vacantly ahead of her. And Niall’s pretty certain that she hasn’t been paying one ounce of attention for the entirety of the Liverpool vs Man City match.

“Iris?” He asks, waving a hand in front of her face “Were you even watching?”

“Huh?” she asks with a jolt, slipping out of her daze and turning to her Irish friend with wide eyes.

Niall lets out a quiet sigh and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “You were thinkin’ ‘bout Harry, weren’tcha?” he says with a knowing glance.

He’s not wrong; Iris had indeed been mulling over what happened on her sofa that one afternoon last week. But it’s not just that – there’s more. She’s thinking about Louis, too. Thinking about his face when she’d dropped the news of her latest romantic pursuit. Thinking about what Harry had said just before he left, how even he, when Iris thought he’d been so absorbed in her, could see the obvious desire in both of their eyes, could tell by their body language that there was some history between the two.

 _Are we that pronounced?_ Iris thinks, wondering about all the other occasions where somebody could’ve recognised their thing for each other.

“Hey,” Niall says from beside her, interrupting her train of thought “I think you did the right thing by telling Harry.”

She angles herself towards him in her seat, noticing he’s busy texting on his phone, but deciding to speak anyway. “You really—“ she starts, but is cut off by the beefy bloke behind them, shouting ‘for fuck’s sake’ at the ref who’s just made what he perceives as a horrible decision, “--Think so?”

“Yeah,” Niall mumbles mindlessly, continuing to dart him thumb around the keypad.

Iris smiles warmly, and then, figuring that spending the entire evening ignoring the match in front of her would be a waste of a ticket, opts to pay attention to the game, only taking her eyes off of the field once for a quick update on the scoreboard.

She’s always been a football fan. It comes from her father, who practically lives and breathes the game. As young children, each of the Blackstone siblings were introduced to the sport by their dad, but only two showed an interest: Iris and Marcus. Abby was never particularly fond of anything involving physical activity, and instead much preferred playing with dolls and dressing up in fairy costumes.

When choosing a team to barrack for, Iris and Marcus’ father had promised that if they followed any other team than Liverpool, they’d be kicked out of the house and would have to fend for themselves on the streets. And being at the tender ages of 4 and 6, they’d believed him, and vowed to show allegiance to Liverpool and _only_ Liverpool.

It’s funny, because they didn’t even live in the city. In fact, they lived in the Yorkshire town of Harrogate, with its limestone buildings, Roman baths, pretty gardens and quaint tea rooms. But it was a family thing, passed down from generation to generation, and to not support Liverpool was seen as a betrayal.

Now, Iris hangs onto the edge of her seat as Balotelli dribbles the ball up to the goal, the defenders barely able to keep up. The player’s foot makes powerful contact with the ball, and there’s a moment of silence throughout the stadium as it soars through the air and the goalkeeper dives to stop it. She doesn’t even see the ball hitting the net, just knows they’ve scored by the way every fan in the audience bearing a Liverpool scarf shoots up into the air in utter pride.

It’s only natural that she joins them, and finds herself shouting nonsense at the top of her lungs as the crowd around her cheers.

Once it’s all out of her system, she takes back her seat and is surprised to find Niall still texting on his phone, having not joined her in that little celebration. It’s weird because he’s usually even _more_ vocal than her at football games, and doesn’t tend to waste an opportunity to scream and shout.

“Niall, we scored a goal,” she informs him, wondering if maybe he just hadn’t been paying attention, as she hadn’t been earlier.

In reply he flexes an arm and mutters a quiet ‘yes’, before continuing his other conversation.

Niall’s main team is Derby County, but because they’re not in the premier league, and because he has enough love of the game to stretch across two teams, and also because he’s a fantastic friend, he supports Liverpool as well. It’s Iris and Niall’s bonding time, these matches, and the two are on constant alert whenever football season rolls around so they can snag tickets to every Liverpool game being held in Manchester.

“Who are you texting?” Iris asks, trying to peer over his shoulder.

“Huh?” Niall asks, hiding his phone screen.

“I asked who you were texting.”

“Oh, uh. Just this girl I met at a pub last week,” he dismisses, and Iris takes note of the way his face lights up as he reads the latest text from this mystery girl. Okay then.

Thirty minutes later, and the match finishes – Liverpool winning 1- 0. Niall and Iris exit the stadium chanting ‘You’ll never walk alone’ arm in arm, and a few passing fans briefly join them (A few Man City supporters offering them dirty looks, too). They climb into Niall’s beaten up sedan laughing, and Iris decides that she loves spending time with the Irish lad, loves how she can always count on it being a laugh.

With Zara, sometimes they end up at one of their flats, passing a bottle of something alcoholic back and forth between them while confessing things to each other that they’ve wanted to say since Year 9. And that’s good, because it means that she can tell Zara anything, can call her up at two am and count on her not to say ‘go the fuck to sleep’, but to listen until the sun peeks over the horizon and the birds begin to sing. But she also needs someone who can always make her laugh, can have unforgettable fun with, and that’s where Niall comes in.

Iris settles into the car seat, the post-victory excitement beginning to fizzle away, and watches Niall’s gleeful face, his always present smile. A question strikes, and she’s too tired from the day’s events to stop it from passing through her mouth.

“You’re always so happy, Niall. How are you always so happy?” she asks with a furrowed brow, staring as he drums his fingers on the top of the steering wheel while they wait at a traffic light.

“You know what I always tell myself?” He asks, turning to her. Iris gives a slight shake of the head, listening with interest. “If there’s something you want, go for it. If anyone tries to stop you tell ‘em to fuck off.” He answers as the light turns green. “Unless of course, the thing you want is to murder somebody. In that case, don’t. Just as a… a general rule, you know?” he rambles, unaware that Iris had stopped paying attention to him after the first piece of advice.

She’s watching the townhouses flash by in the window as she mulls it all over. She thinks of all the lost chances in her life, the times which when she reminisces back on, always wishes she had of said what she’d wanted to say, thinks of Niall’s happiness, and how he doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, thinks of Harry leaving her flat, who after just hearing the news that he was never valued much by Iris, was still able to firmly state ‘I think you better get off your arse and go win him back’. Finally, she thinks of Louis, the one which that statement referred to, and almost immediately knows what she has to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment! I'd love to know your thoughts x.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a piece of trash bye

She’s got it all figured out, how today’s going to run. She has a mental checklist of what to do, has a few ideas of what to say. Everything is sorted… except her outfit.

On her bed lay a few possible items of clothing, but no matter how many combinations she tries, no matter how many times she swaps a skirt for jeans or chooses a different top, she just can’t seem to get it right. And it needs to be perfect. After all, today is the day she’s planning to win Louis back.

It had been a slow decision at first, establishing whether or not it would be worth telling Louis exactly how she feels. And most of it was bought on by Niall’s speech about not letting anything get in the way of what you want. But in the end she’d come to the conclusion that yes, she does want to. She does want to call Louis her boyfriend, does want to do all those cute things couples do with him, like share food, develop pet names for each other and even have her own little draw reserved for his stuff, for all the times he’d stay over. And even though they wouldn’t be the most normal couple per se, they could still take precautions in terms of the whole ‘illegal’ thing, right?

Yeah, because Iris wants this enough to be crazy, and she’s 99.9% sure that Louis wants it too, and let’s be honest; they’d be cute as fuck together.

As for her outfit, however, there isn’t anything cute about it, considering it’s non-existent. Just when she’s honestly about to tear her hair out, she finds at the back of her closet a mustard skater skirt which she hasn’t worn for a while, and when holding it against a white shirt with a black collar, eventually agrees that it’s the only thing she’s come up with that will actually suffice.

It’s when she’s getting dressed that she realises it’s the exact same outfit she wore to her first day of teaching at Farleigh Heights, the day she saw Louis for the first time. She spends a brief moment pondering if that means anything, or is merely futile coincidence.

Thinking that maybe it is a sign, she searches her floor for that pair of tan brogues she’d worn as well, and grabs that duffle coat off the hook too. Louis had said that he’d had feelings since the beginning, and if this is what she’d been wearing when that attraction sparked, maybe wearing it again will bring good luck.

In the bathroom, she’s feeling a bit ambitious with her makeup, and decides to increase the length of her winged eyeliner flick from what she normally does. After spraying on some strawberry scented fragrance, just because she can, she gathers all her folders and papers she needs for the day’s classes, checks to make sure Florence’s water bowl is full and leaves, unable to halt the grin which spreads across her face as she closes the door behind her. Because Louis, that’s why.

Sliding into her car, cramped with old CD cases, spare coats and an umbrella, she ignites the engine and turns onto the main road. Understandably, when she’s stuck in early morning city commute, trying to travel north towards Greater Manchester and the grounds of Farleigh Heights, she’s groaning and huffing and hoping for the clog up to clear. But today she doesn’t seem to mind, is too happy and relaxed to get worked up over a simple few minutes of waiting at red lights.

Maybe it’s because she doesn’t want to arrive early and have to loiter around the staffroom for half an hour, pretending to look busy in a desperate attempt to avoid William Hammond’s awkward conversation starters. No, she’d much rather proceed straight to her first class, where Louis is there and waiting, so she can get the lesson over with and call him back once all the students have gone and tell him how she really feels; how much she wants him, how she’s now willing to risk all she’d listed at the last conversation they’d had under those circumstances, for the sake of them being together.

 _Yeah,_ she decides as she curves into the staff carpark, _it’s probably that._

She arrives with a bit over five minutes to spare before her first class, so yeah, she is late for work, and her boss won’t be particularly happy, but so what. In that time she places her lunch container in the fridge, narrowly dodges an interaction with Mr Hammond and collects her folders before making her way towards the isolated portable classroom where her Literature class is held.

“Hiya everyone,” she says once she’s there, unlocking the door. Usually she allows for the students to file into the classroom even if she hasn’t yet arrived, but at this time in the morning it’s common for the doors to be locked. “Sorry I’m late, I was stuck in traffic,” she explains shortly as she motions them inside. Her eyes trace over the cluster of students who’d been waiting, expecting to locate that scruffy brown hair and those pretty blue eyes. But there’s no sign of him, which causes a crease to settle in her brow. Is he sick? Dammit. Did she wear this outfit for nothing? Fuck, she can’t wear it again tomorrow, knowing that somebody’s bound to recognise it from the previous day, so that means she’ll have to conjure up something new for Louis’ return, and that’s going to be more stressful than it seems. She may as well start planning for it now.

“Today we’re going to be watching the film which we’ll be studying for the next couple of weeks,” Iris says once the class is properly seated, trying not to let Louis’ absence discourage her from actually doing her job. It’s hard though, because she was so ready and excited for today and she was going to take him back to her flat after school and do who knows what else and… and… it’s just not fair. That’s what. “But first I’ll quickly take the register,” she informs them as she opens up her laptop.

She begins to call out names, making her way down the list. She’s just about to reach his name, be reminded of the harsh truth that he’s not here and that her plan is unable to carry on, when the door creaks open. In steps a sheepish Louis, tiptoeing as if it will minimalize the chance of him being caught entering the class late. But it’s no use, because at the sound of an opening door Iris’ head had perked up like an animal sensing a disturbance, as if she’d been hyperaware of her surroundings, hoping this would happen.

“Take a seat, Louis,” she instructs casually before continuing down the list of names. And she tries with all her might to fight off a smile, because Louis’ here and he looks extra cute today and she can finally commence her plan to win him back.

Having seen the film numerous times before for teaching purposes, she doesn’t pay much attention to it, just looks at the projector screen every so often to ensure she knows what part they’re up to and what to discuss in the upcoming lessons. In the meantime she reviews some of her notes for her next class, picks at her nails and, not to mention, takes secretive glances at Louis. Because how could she not? Especially when he looks like that.

Due to her anticipation, the bell seems to take forever to sound, and when it finally does she’s quick to dismiss the class. But not without calling one particular student back, of course.

“Louis?” she asks sweetly “Could you wait there? I need to talk to you about your essay.”

“Er, okay,” he answers, appearing almost nervous as he pauses from collecting his books. He got a D+ on the last essay, and he’s hoping that this little chat has nothing to do with tutoring attendance again.

Iris notices, and smiles at him briefly as some sort of rushed attempt to calm him down, assure him that it isn’t about his coursework at all. While waiting for the final remaining students to file out the door she packs up the projector screen and contemplates her next move, wonders how she should go about confessing her feelings to him.

The click of the door announces their newfound privacy, and Iris spins back around to face him. He’s slouched against a table, arms folded over his chest, the corner of his bottom lip tucked away behind his teeth, and Iris is sure she had rehearsed something to say at this point in time but she can’t for the life of her remember what it was, can no longer comprehend how she could waste her time speaking when there are far more enjoyable things she’d much prefer to be _doing_.

“Hold on a sec,” she mutters, exhaling a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, probably from the mere sight of Louis watching her. She strides over to the windows, offering a view of the lush grass of the football pitch, and begins lowering the blinds as far as they can go, gradually darkening the room with each pull.

“Uh, Miss Blackstone?” Louis asks from the centre of the room, and she can hear the confusion in his voice.

“Iris,” she corrects meekly, not sparing a glance back.

“ _Iris,_ what exactly are you doing?” he asks incredulously, because it’s not like the sun is bright enough to be blinding or cause a glare, in fact there’s overcast, so why is she shutting all the blinds?

She doesn’t bother responding, instead finishes closing every blind until the room is stripped of natural light. Once done, she turns around to see him, discovering a puzzled look on his face. She’s hoping it’ll wipe off soon enough, hoping he’ll catch on.

She begins to approach, her footsteps rushed and urgent, and then her hands are reaching out to cup his face and she’s kissing him; closing her eyes, pressing her lips to his and choosing to ignore the fact that it’s illegal, instead just focusing on Louis and the surprised noise he makes against her and his hands which fly out to grab her hips and the way he kisses her back like he’s drowning.

It’s two months of lost time reconciled in this delightful first kiss; two months of waiting, hoping and longing, in Louis’ case especially. It’s reflected in the way that he kisses her hard and forceful, nearly sending her off balance and causing for her to grip him tighter, the way he splays his fingers over her skin in a possessive manner, as if he’s trying to touch as much of her as possible, claim it as his. It’s never really been this rough between them before, but this could probably be justified by the amount of sheer desire – sheer _need_ – that’s been growing inside them for the entire course of their separation.

But Louis remembers something critical, remembers the dairy section of Tesco and the news which had left him as an emotional wreckage for the next week, and pushes her away. Iris has a boyfriend.

“What the hell, babe?” he pants, staring at her in incredulity. And for a second there, Iris thought that it was working out perfectly, and that for the moment she wouldn’t have to do the mound of explaining which would inevitably come with taking the not-so-subtle approach of confessing her feelings by suddenly kissing him. “You,” he says, still trying to catch his breath “You have a boyfriend.”

“No, I don’t.” Iris says simply, too happy and smitten from kissing him to act serious for a single moment, and leans in for another kiss, only to be stopped by a still distrustful looking Louis, demanding she elaborates.  “Harry – he was only a distraction,” she explains.

“A distraction from what?”

“From you,” she admits, and his face twists up in confusion, wondering how this could all relate to him. He’s spent the last two months convinced he meant nothing to her. “You see, back then, and I’m sure you’re aware, I was strongly against the idea of us being together, knowing how it could jeopardise my career and future. But I also knew that it would be extremely difficult to get over you, so I… I went out with Harry. And he… distracted me. For a little while at least.”

As Louis processes that information he casts his gaze to the floor and visibly swallows, a look of deep thought plastered on his face as he tries to make sense of things. “And what made you break up with him?” he mumbles, breath fanning out over Iris’ face, and it’s then that she remembers that he’s still holding her; that they’re still pressed so impossibly close together.

“You,” she says, voice cracking as Louis’ eyelids fly open, revealing his vivid blue irises, so vibrant that they surely can’t be real. “Again,” she adds.

He looks down again, wearing that same thoughtful expression, and Iris’ brow creases because what if he doesn’t want this? What if he says no? What if he’s currently constructing in his head the best way to let her down lightly, explain to her that he actually isn’t in the mood for anything serious at the moment.

Meanwhile, Louis is inwardly full to the brim with joy, because he’s starting to connect the dots, starting to uncover the hidden proposal behind Iris’ words and actions.

“I thought I could get over you,” she starts up again, words flowing out quickly. “But just seeing you in Tesco, and later that week in classes, and just thinking about… about that night at your place, with the spaghetti and the Jammy Dodgers and that stupid reality TV show playing in the background… I dunno, I just— I… I want that, Louis. I want to be with you. I wanna hang out with you like that all the time and I don’t care about whether that’s against the law or not anymore.”

So what Louis’ gathered is that after their first kiss, Iris had run away as fast as she could from what was destined to be a hazardous relationship, run away to somebody who could distract her from her sinful desire. But that hadn’t been enough for her, and she’d found herself crawling back to Louis, this time less rational, less sane. And she wants that hazardous relationship now, doesn’t care that it’s illegal and unethical and all together the biggest risk either of them will ever take, is just holding onto the hope that the two of them will somehow make it work.

“Louis?” she asks, because he hasn’t replied, has just been staring at the floor for the entire course of her speech. It’s at this point in time that she’s convinced he’s gonna smack her across the face, laugh at her, explain to her that he’d only kissed back with such passion before as a means to lead her on, make her feel loved, so he could gain revenge by tearing all that hope down, crushing her in the same way she did the morning after the weekend tutoring session. She was so horrible to him that day that she thinks she deserves it.

But when Louis does look up at her, instead of there being a revengeful, menacing look, he’s holding back, without much success, a huge smile, and the corners of his eyes are all crinkled and he looks so happy and nothing could in any way prepare her for what he does next.

“Oh, babe,” he coos with a happy sigh, like he’d been waiting to say that all along, as he brings a hand to her cheek. And before she can smile or breathe her own sigh of relief, he’s kissing her again, this time with an added urgency, like he’s trying to convey everything, all he feels about this subject, into this one perfect kiss.

Iris has no choice but to melt into it, and finally all the worries of rejection and doubts of this not working fade away.

Louis’ lips are wet and warm, and he applies the perfect alternation of pressure; soft, then rough. It’s enough to consume her, enough to make he lose her bearings and forget where she is. She can’t help but curse at herself for declining _this_ for an entire two months, can’t understand how she could distance herself from something as heavenly as his lips and his body and his taste.

In a moment where they’ve pulled away, she opens her eyes for a second and catches sight of a clock behind Louis’ head. It’s more than five minutes into morning tea, and Louis’ still here, kissing her like he’s got nowhere to be. But Iris has a vanilla slice in the staff room fridge, and also knows that Louis’ friends might start to question his absence if she keeps him any longer. So she presses one last kiss onto his pink mouth and reluctantly says, “Think you’d better go now.”

Louis whines in protest, leaning back in to shower her face with even more kisses, tightening his grip so she can’t escape. She nudges him back, though, and he eventually gives up with a groan. “I don’t want to stop you from having your morning tea.” She explains, “And I’m kinda hungry too.”

“Fine,” he gives in, and when he steps back to collect his books, smiling at her briefly, she can’t help but notice how relaxed he looks. In classes these past weeks, he’s always appeared a little tense and uncomfortable, and his marks reflected just how upset he was. But now Iris can already see an improvement in his attitude, and wouldn’t be surprised if his next assessment task deserves a B – or maybe even an A, judging from the spring in his step as he heads towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he adds over his shoulder, grinning.

Iris nods her head, satisfied and about to leap into the air from joy at Louis’ reacceptance of her, but then remembers another component to her plan, remembers why she cleared all her afternoon schedule to make room for this. “Wait!” she calls, much louder and desperate than she’d intended. He pauses in his tracks and looks at her in surprise. “I, um,” she fumbles, realising it probably isn’t as urgent as she’d just made it out to be. “Would you like to come over to my flat after school?”

“Oh, I’d love to, babe,” he promises sincerely “But I’ve got football practice.”

“Oh,” she says, her face dropping. “After football practice then?”

Louis smiles at how persistent she is, and says “Only if you promise to watch me train. It’ll be boring without you yelling from the stands.”

And Iris jumps at the opportunity, not even considering that watching the boy’s football team train instead of doing her work will probably be labelled pervy by anyone who’ll happen to notice her seated in the stands.

* * *

 

The day couldn’t pass any longer.

It may just be how much she’s edging for the bell to ring, but her Year 11 English class seems to be more annoying than usual, disrupting her when she tries to inform them of the homework which is due the next lesson and just generally being all-round twats to her.

“If you don’t stop talking I will honestly keep you guys in all lunchtime.” She threatens, fighting to have her voice heard over the chatter. “That’s a punishment I use when I teach Year 7s. I would’ve thought you’d be a bit more mature than them.”

The class starts to quiet down after that, because they’ve grown accustomed to ‘fun Iris’, and have never really seen her get mad before. Iris stands at the front with her arms crossed, waiting for the last of the students to close their mouths. The bell sounds before the class is truly quiet, but they all remain seated, guessing by the look on her face that Ms Blackstone was serious about keeping them in all lunchtime.

She continues to eye them with a look of disappointment, thinking of how she should start scolding them, but then she remembers that she packed pasta in her lunch today, and that by keeping them in like this she’s making time pass even slower, and she’d rather have this day over and done with in the shortest time possible. So with a wave of her hand she drops the whole ‘strict teacher’ act and tells them to ‘get out of here’. They all file out contently, returning to their conversations, and they have no idea that Iris is still quite mad at them, and that when they return to this classroom on Wednesday she’s not going to be as nice as she usually is.

Lunch takes years, as there’s probably nothing more tedious than chaperoning a playground of Year 7s, breaking up all the juvenile fights while trying to supress an eye roll at how fucking stupid they are. And her free period doesn’t go any faster either, as William shares that space of time with her, poking his head out from around his desk to make conversation.

When the final bell sounds she actually closes her eyes and sighs in relief, thanking the heavens. She’s just about to collect her things and head outside, before deciding it would probably be best to allow some time beforehand, just so it doesn’t seem weird to, you know, rush outside to watch a team of athletic boys do their warm ups. In the meantime she chats to her new friend Rebecca, a maths teacher who’s probably the closest to her age out of all the staff members.

About twenty minutes later she heads to the football pitch with folders in hand, figuring she’ll need something to occupy most of her attention so the coach doesn’t notice her and start to raise questions. Upon arrival she sees the team in mid-match, passing the ball around the field, and spots Louis easily (all she had to do was look for the cute butt, to be honest). She seats herself on the highest bench, away from the action, and watches out of the corner of her eye. Louis recognises her when the team has been assembled for a huddle, and gives her the brightest smile. She can’t help but be pleased that he didn’t wave or shout or do anything which could attract attention, and that he’s already being cautious about their relationship. It means she doesn’t have to worry about him blowing their secret, and knowing that Louis’ got her back, she won’t have to be constantly on her toes when they’re together.

To pass the time she opens her laptop and actually gets some work done – surprising, considering that before her is a sweaty Louis, engrossed in physical activity. The practice session only lasts another fifteen minutes, and the players are all sent off to the change rooms.  Louis’ talking to one of his teammates as he walks off, but his eyes are glued on Iris, the corners of his lips curled upwards as he speaks. It’s gonna take her a while to get used to this, especially since she’d built up so many walls in the past to block him out. To now have him this close to her just feels so sudden and strange.

She ambles her way down the steps, and before he can disappear into the male toilets she catches him, saying “Louis, I need to talk to you about your essay.”

She figures that’ll be their code word for now, as this is the second time she’s said that today. She must admit, she likes this; code words, sneaking, closets. The risk of it gives her this thrill which any other normal relationship couldn’t.

“Okay,” he agrees, a knowing look in his eyes as he wipes some sweat off his forehead.

One of his teammates passes, and he either hears their little exchange or just reacts the sight of them together, as he pats Louis on the back and gives him a look; a look which suggests he wasn’t congratulating him on a good training session, but rather something else. Louis shoves him off playfully, and Iris can’t help but wonder what it means, wonder if she’d been wrong to assume that Louis was taking precautions.

He turns towards the change room door, about to head in, but shaking the suspicion from her head, she stops him, waiting for the last of the team to enter before she speaks.

“Don’t get changed,” she pleads, placing her hands over his shoulders. Taking him back to her flat while he’s wearing his school uniform wouldn’t be ideal, as it’ll just remind her that he’s a student, put stress on their age gap.

“Why?” Louis asks, confused.

“Just— just don’t. Please.” She answers.

“Okay, but I still have to get my bag,” he says, taking a step towards the door.

“No, don’t,” she pushes him back yet again “Wait until all the others have left first,” she adds, just in case a teammate of Louis’ would question why he’s not getting changed.

So they stand by the door, looking around aimlessly as they wait.

“Is it ‘cause you like seeing me in my football kit?” he asks after a few seconds, a playful twinkle in his eyes as he runs a hand through his hair, sticky with sweat.

“Sorry?” Iris asks, being so distracted with the worry that someone’s going to bust out and discover them, that she can’t make any sense of Louis’ question.

“That you don’t want me to get changed?” he elaborates, and _oh._

“You got me,” Iris lies, smiling at him briefly before returning back to peering over her shoulder so she can catch sight of any approaching figures and know when to start talking about essay structure and correct quote embedding.

“I’ll have to wear it more often then,” he says lowly, placing his hands on her hips and leaning in closer. He’s trying to flirt, and in normal circumstances Iris would be swooning right about now but this _isn’t the fucking time._ Why can’t he understand that?

The first of Louis’ teammates emerge from the change room in their school uniforms, and Iris knocks his hands away and starts talking about Literature assessment work. Thankfully he catches on, nodding his head and pretending to look interested.

“Your conclusion could’ve been stronger,” she says as more boys pass, making it all up as she goes. “And your point about, uh…”

“Antony’s suicide actually being homicide?” Louis improvises quickly.

“Yeah, see that… that just isn’t right. He fell on his _own_ sword. Nobody killed him. _It’s a fact of the play_.” Iris stresses as the last of them walk by. “There couldn’t possibly be any explanation for that because— Okay, _go. GO._ ” She whisper-shouts as soon as they’re out of earshot, practically pushing Louis through the door of the change rooms.

As soon as he returns with his sports bag slung over his shoulder Iris grabs his hand and pulls him away from the football pitch and into the corridors, travelling as swiftly as she can.

“Whoa, babe,” he laughs from behind her “Why the eagerness?”

“There are teachers still here and if any of them catch us both getting into my car then questions _will_ be asked,” she tells him quietly as they pass through a hallway lined with dark, empty classrooms with chairs stacked on tables. She feels like she’s on a stealth mission, trying to escort Louis to a safe place. _To many spy movies,_ she thinks.

They advance down another corridor and exit through a set of double doors, finding themselves in a little garden by the staff carpark. Unfortunately, Mr Waters, the principal, has his office situated right ahead, overlooking the carpark. And the curtains are open and he’s pacing around the room, occasionally looking out the window.

“Duck!” Iris hisses, falling down behind a hedge. Louis follows a second later, and she peers through the leaves and branches, waiting for the coast to be clear. “Why does his office have to be right there? Honestly?” she groans.

“Hey,” he begins, and Iris is startled by how close his voice is. She turns around to discover him pressed right up against her, due to the constrictive space behind the hedge, and is momentarily distracted by the sight of his pretty blue eyes up close. “Is Mr Waters as much of a prick as I think he is?”

“He’s worse than what you think.” Iris promises, inwardly gagging at the thought of her boss “He yells at us teachers for the stupidest of reasons.”

“Teachers get yelled at?” he asks, smiling.

“Yes, and if you don’t keep your head down, he’s gonna come out here and demonstrate that to you,” she hisses, placing a hand atop his head and pulling him down. But due to the lack of room, it causes Louis’ to fall right on top of her, their faces inches apart, bodies lying in the mulch.

Iris acknowledges their position; Louis on top of her, her hands tangled in his hair, his face close enough that she can feel his breath, and it’s gravitational that they should kiss. Without prior thought, he smirks before leaning down and pressing his lips to hers, and Iris lets it happen, allows for her fingers to roam around his hair freely. He lets out an obscene moan, swiping his tongue across her lower lip, and it’s when he starts to push his tongue in that she realises that this is an awful idea.

“Not the time,” she mumbles against him, shoving him away.

“Not the time?” he asks as he pulls away with pleading, puppy dog eyes.

“No,” she confirms sternly, sitting back up to peer through the hedge.

“Okay,” he mutters dejectedly, joining her.

They watch as Mrs Collins, one of the assistant principals, pokes her head through the doorway of Mr Waters’ office and lures him out for something important. Iris sees the chance, and alerts Louis with a whispered “ _Now,_ ” before jumping out from behind the hedge and bolting towards her Clio. The two run gangly through the parking lot, adrenaline pumping through their veins at the fear of being caught. Pulling her keys from her bag, she unlocks the doors and they slide in, dismissing seatbelts as Iris ignites the engine. She peers back towards the office, only to discover that her boss is back to standing by the window.

“Get down,” she hisses to Louis, and he does his best to hide himself as Iris backs out of the carpark “Oh God, he’s looking. Get down, get down,”

“I am down,” Louis assures her impatiently as she speeds out onto the street.

Iris hadn’t realised she’d been panting, quite heavily too, and with the new found peace she can hear Louis softly laughing from his side. She too begins to laugh breathlessly at the ridiculousness of the situation, barely able to focus on driving.

“Oh my _God._ ” Louis chuckles, his hands clutching his tummy.

“We are never doing that again!” Iris swears, still giggling “We have to come up with a better plan next time.”

“Agreed,” he says, and they lapse into a silence as they both catch their breaths.

“Shit, I forgot my folders. And my laptop.” Iris groans, causing him to laugh even more. “It’s not funny.” She whines, tempted to playfully push his shoulder.

“Well, you’re pretty much fucked for tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“True. I’m not even supposed to have left work yet, and I haven’t signed out with my card,” she admits sheepishly.

“Iris, you are setting a terrible example. If you ever tell me off for wagging this year, I will make sure I remind you of this day.” Louis says, all mock serious.

“Fair enough,” she laughs “Guess you’ve gotta break the rules sometimes.” Louis hums in agreement “But, no, it should be alright. I can text Rebecca to put my folders and stuff back on my desk. And the signing out thing… I’ll just make up an excuse.”

Louis nods as he pulls out his phone and darts his fingers around the screen. “I’m telling my mum I’ve gone to Stan’s,” he informs her, pressing send. And there’s another thing which affects their relationship; Louis’ parents. There’s going to be a lot of sneaking around and lying, but they’ve just gotta accept that.

Iris continues to drive further towards the city, and the interior of the car is turned to silence, giving her a chance to mull things over. Like what happened outside the change rooms, the teammate who’d given Louis that look. What did it all mean?

“Hey, Lou?” she asks quietly as they wait at a traffic light.

“Mmm?”

“What happened at the change rooms, with…with that guy?”

“Whatdya mean?” he questions, staring at her in incredulity

“That guy who like… came up to you, and he… he gave you this look. I don’t know.”

“You mean Adam?” he asks, still with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah. Him. Probably.” Iris agrees.

“That was nothing, babe,” he dismisses.

“’S just that he looked at you like… like he knew something? I don’t know. It just… worried me a little.”

“You shouldn’t worry about it. It was nothing,” he repeats, shaking his head.

“Okay,” she says, but there’s a part of her that’s still not convinced. Another silence washes over as they drive further through Manchester, Iris’ flat only a few streets away now.

“At the start of the year, I uh,” Louis begins suddenly, looking to his feet “I told Adam and like, two of my other mates about my, uh, crush on you. That’s what it was about. He knows that I like you, he just doesn’t know we’re a thing.”

She can’t help but smile at the mention of his ‘crush’ on her. It’s the cutest thing, honestly. And she’s glad that he’s being honest with her, too.

A few minutes later and Iris is unlocking the door to her flat.

“It’s not much,” she warns as she walks in, Louis trailing behind her with wide eyes. “But it’s… not much.”

She scolds herself for not at least attempting a clean-up this morning, because there is stuff everywhere she looks. She has to remind herself that Louis’ place wasn’t perfect either, even had a few food scraps lying around.

Louis’ eyes scan the entire place, taking it all in. “I like it,” he decides, turning to her with a smile.

“Really?” she asks, because she doesn’t even like it herself.

“Yeah, it’s… it’s cosy,” he elaborates, and with that, steps forward, crowding into her space. Grabbing her cheeks, he presses his lips to hers softly, not wishing for anything rough; just slow, sweet movements.

Within minutes they’re nestled together on the couch, talking endlessly about nothing in particular. It feels so right to have Louis next to her, in her flat, which is the opposite of what she’d expected. She’d predicted that the contrast between Louis, this new force in her life – clean and full of innocence – and the mess of her flat which has been host to numerous one-night-stands and countless hangovers – the place where she and Zara have smoked cigarettes at two in the morning, where Niall has thrown up on the carpet – would be too great, and these two parts of her life should be kept separate. But Louis blends right in, looks like he belongs here.

“So you’re telling me that that whole ‘weekend tutoring session’ was all a set up, and you were free on Thursday that whole time?” she responds to the sudden confession Louis’ just told her.

“Mhm,” he replies happily, smiling up at her.

“Why?” she wonders, tilting her head to the side.

“To get in with you of course. I’d been planning it all that week. Actually, pretty much since I first saw you.” He admits without shame.

"Hey, when did you first see me, though? Was it at that assembly that morning? Because I hope not. I gave a really awkward wave when the principal introduced me and I still think about how embarrassing it was to this day." Iris rambles, furrowing her brow at the memory.

"I actually missed that assembly." Louis assures her as he mindlessly strokes her hair, causing for her to sound an exaggerated sigh of relief. "I was running late, I remember. By the time I got to school there was no point going to the hall since classes would start in a few minutes, so I just went to the room. And I remember Stan came up, and," he continues to explain, pausing for a brief moment to smile "and, told me that our Literature teacher was hot."

Iris screws her face up in amusement, as she's never thought of herself as 'hot'. Maybe Stan's vocabulary for describing attractive women was limited.

"And so I thought you were gonna be like, blonde haired, tanned, everything Stan likes, y'know? But then I saw you, and you were carrying folders too big for you and you were in this flippy little skirt," he says, tugging on the mustard fabric, "and you gave us that adorable little smile, and you were fumbling with your keys as you said 'hello', and you were just so gorgeous to me, Iris." he finishes, moving his hand up to cup her cheek, bringing her down for a quick kiss. And she can recall Louis that day, can remember almost having a break down the first time she saw him, can remember his face when she'd talked to him after class, and all that time he was thinking she was gorgeous. That's probably the best thing she’s found out all year.

"Well," she mumbles against him before pulling back, "When I first saw you, I was marking the register, and I actually thought you were like, some test that the school had put on me to make sure I wasn't in the business of starting relationships with even the most tempting of students."

"Who said I'm not?" Louis asks playfully, quirking up a brow.

"Shut up." Iris groans, smacking him lightly on the elbow, but unable to resist giggling because he honestly looks so cute when he's challenging her like that.

"But if that was a test, you've failed it." Louis adds, nodding down at their current position; Iris hovering above him, his hands wrapped around her waist.

"Well you didn't exactly help me to pass it now, did you?" she retorts, before allowing herself to fall down onto him, their lips crashing together due to gravity. The kiss is slow and unhurried. Every drag of their lips, every swipe of the tongue, is savoured. This is the kind of thing which Iris wouldn’t mind doing for the rest of her life.

"This has never happened before, just so you know." she adds, pulling back abruptly at the thought. "I've never... done this with a student before."

"I know," Louis mumbles carelessly, not wanting anything more than to keep kissing Iris. He presses his lips to hers again, this time using his tongue to prod against the closed off point between their two mouths, until she opens up and allows him inside.

"And," Iris says, pulling away yet again. And Louis is starting to get a bit restless, so could she stop, please? "I just, I want you to know that, uh, at my old school I had the, erm... _opportunity_ to do this with a student, but I turned him down, since I'm usually pretty sensible about these things."

"Yeah, you were quite adamant that we couldn't see each other when we had that talk, remember?"

“Mhm,” she agrees, recalling that one time when she actually held some rationality within her. “We still have to take precautions, Louis,” she reminds him, moving a clump of hair out of his face.

“I know,” he mumbles, kissing the tip of her nose.

“And… and we really have to trust each other,” she adds, biting her lip and suddenly a little worried at the realisation of all the demands of their relationship.

“Well, that’s not a problem. I trust you,” he admits without any hesitation, voice sincere.

And that’s it. Right there. The thing which puts an end to any voices in her head which threaten to doubt her decision to go through with this.

“I trust you, too,” she confesses with just as much simplicity, her lips spreading into an embarrassingly large grin.

 _Yeah,_ she thinks as Louis pulls her in for yet another kiss, _we’re gonna make this work._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made the decision to change the protagonists name to Iris. That's her name in another version of this which I'm writing on another site, and it was starting to be too much of a hassle to keep changing the names every time I post a new chapter. Hope it isn't too weird for you. Personally, I think she's more of an Iris than a Jess.

After holing up in Iris’ flat for a good hour or so longer, snuggling on the couch until the sky faded from grey to an orangey pink, they reluctantly agreed that continuing this any further would raise suspicions in Louis’ mothers’ head. So he left at half past six so he could make it in time for dinner, where he sat down at the pine wood table with his family and talked about his day as if it were as normal as any other.

Back at the flat, however, Iris was so thrilled and overjoyed that she could barely contain her excitement, and took the opportunity to tell somebody, _anybody,_ about this truly wonderful thing that has occurred in her once miserable life.

Well, she couldn’t exactly tell _anybody,_ and she only realised that when she’d pulled out her phone and begun scrolling through all her contacts. For obvious reasons, she couldn’t tell somebody like her boss, nor her family, as the whole ordeal is still relatively new and if she ever _were_ to tell her parents, it would have to be several months from now, or preferably when Louis graduates and there’s no shock of finding out that their high school teacher daughter is seeing one of her own students.

No, after narrowing it down, the only people she felt comfortable with telling at that point in time were Zara and Niall. And Zara was far more interested in this whole dating business than Niall was, so it seemed the obvious choice to call her.

It had been a frantic conversation, and Iris’ downstairs neighbour may have knocked on the door to inquire about ‘all those strange thumping noises’ (Iris behaving like a five-year-old by jumping off every ledge in her flat out of pure excitement). But once she’d calmed down and Zara had become reasonably open to the idea of her best friend engaging in a relationship with a minor (Iris swears that both of their morals have disappeared off the face of this earth), a serious question was asked.

“So, what are you now?”

And everything pretty much stopped after that. ‘Cause, like, _what are they?_

Well, it’s pretty clear that Louis is not Iris’ boyfriend just yet. Not counting today, there’s only been one other legitimate time where they could easily call themselves ‘together’, and that was two months ago. That’s a total of two days in each other’s company like this, and that’s certainly not enough time for the terms ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’ to appear. But they are still a thing, that’s for sure.

 _But what should I tell Zara?_ Iris had thought. _What exactly are we? Dating? Seeing each other? Okay, so maybe we have made out. Multiple times. But we haven’t been out on one date together. And while we do know a few things about each other, there’s not nearly enough questions we’ve asked and information we’ve uncovered. I guess you could say that we’ve hardly scratched the surface. But why does it all matter anyway? We don’t need a label. Labels are stupid. We don’t have to call ourselves anything. For now, we can just be Louis and Iris._

“I don’t know,” Iris had replied back into the phone, leaning against the kitchen counter. “We’re not really putting a label on it, we’re just… seeing where it goes, and… and just trying to make it work… somehow.”

And it does work, they find.

They fall into this sort of routine, where they spend each class shooting each other knowing glances until the bell rings. Louis will always be the last to leave, but before he does he’ll touch her waist and whisper something into her ear, maybe even sneak in a quick kiss to her cheek. Then, one day a week – usually a Thursday because Louis doesn’t have football training – they’ll escape off to Iris’ flat in a far more efficient fashion than the first time. Instead of creeping through the staff carpark together, praying that Mr Waters won’t catch them, Iris walks casually towards her car alone and drives out two streets away from the school, finding Louis waiting for her on a street corner, often drinking a can of ‘V’ which he’s picked up from the Tesco down the road, muttering something in disapproval about how long she’s taken. Then he climbs in and kisses her, ‘cause they’ve been waiting all day and they’re only human, and Iris sets off towards her flat while Louis switches the radio station until he can finally find something he deems decent.

Each time’s a bit different. One day, they fall onto the couch and make out until their lips have been turned raw and bruised. Another, Iris warms up some leftover takeaway Rogan Josh and they watch reruns of Malcolm in the Middle.

And they’re just hanging out, really, is what they’re doing. It’s nothing serious, just once lonely afternoons spent in each other’s company. It’s fun and it’s easy and it works, is the important thing.

Louis asks if he can come over one weekend, and using the excuse that he’s out taking Ted to the park, he arrives at Iris’ door with a panting dog at his heel, his smile sheepish. With a sigh she lets them both in, and as they cuddle on the couch they observe as their pets begin to mingle with each other. Ted seems eager to befriend Florence, sniffing her, wagging his tail, crowding up into her face. But Florence is hesitant, sulking back on stiff legs, until finally tentatively stepping forward and allowing the dog to play with her. It’s adorable, and Iris can’t help but see the similarities between their pets and the actual couple themselves. Iris was timid at first, scared of the potential consequences of being caught, but Louis had just wanted to dive right in, fervent and excited and admittedly, quite endearing.  

Three weeks’ worth of these secret hang outs, and they’re still not putting a label on it. It doesn’t need one, really, and Iris thinks that sitting down and having a proper, serious conversation about their feelings for each other might ruin the natural and effortless flow they have going on, might make things seem a little forced. So they leave it at kisses and movies and curries and watching their pets chase each other around the flat.

Now, Iris sits in the staffroom knowing she has an easy day ahead of her. For starters, Literature class pretty much isn’t happening today because there’s an excursion running for all sixth form students at the local university, designed to inform them about uni life and different course options and such. It’s not compulsory, but a large majority of students go because they get to miss out on their normal classes, at least. Iris is guessing that all her Lit students are off on the trip, but she’s been advised to make a quick check outside the classroom to be certain that no kids have been left behind. She has seen a few sixth form kids about the school this morning, but none that she teaches, so she’s already planning on relaxing this first period. Really, she doesn’t have to do any actual teaching until the afternoon, when she takes her Year 11s for English, so there isn’t much point for her to be here this morning. But like, bills and taxes and consumerism still exist, so she does kinda need the money.

Draining the remnants of her cup of tea in one final gulp, she bids a quiet farewell to Rebecca, who she’d been making light conversation with, and begins her journey towards the Lit classroom. She doesn’t expect anyone to be there, and is convinced she can turn back to the staffroom and have the whole morning free to secretly stream last night’s Game of Thrones on her laptop while she’s meant to be working. It sounds pleasing to be able to do that, but at the same time, she is a little upset that her Lit class is pretty much cancelled for the day. Because, like, _Louis_ is in this class, and that means she’s going to miss out on seeing him today all due to a measly excursion.

On her way there, she nearly trips over a rouge piece of ground. She doesn’t fall over, but a few of her folders do, tumbling out of her grasp and landing on the ground with a smack.

“Oh, fuck,” Iris curses in annoyance, bending over and praying that nobody was around to witness that mishap. A strong gust of wind blows by and her hair is falling in every way but the way it should be, covering her entire face, pretty much. When she finally does manage to retrieve her stuff off the ground, fix her hair and poke her head back up, she notices her Lit class room ahead of her, and a figure wearing a burgundy jumper and green tie leaning against the wall with crossed arms, waiting, and Iris should’ve seen this coming, really.

Of course he’d stay back. Of course he’d willingly sacrifice a day off school just so he can spend a period alone with the girl he likes. _Of course._

She lets out a sigh and shakes her head, but is however unable to supress a smile, because she can’t deny that she wants to spend time with Louis too, and this happening might just brighten her day even further.

“Why aren’t you at the excursion?” she prods while approaching, taking note of the smirk he’s wearing, his smug expression which basically reads ‘happy to see me, babe?’

“I thought that maybe we could kiss a little,” he shrugs as Iris begins to unlock the classroom, stepping close behind her.

“No,” she objects in a friendly yet authoritative tone, smiling from just how goddamn endearing he is, “I actually have work for you to do.”

“Work?” Louis repeats as if the mere thought is preposterous, offering a look of disgust as they walk into the classroom together. “I’m the only one in the class today. Why do I have to do fuckin work?”

“Eh,” she shrugs “I guess you don’t have to. Technically I shouldn’t even be doing this right now, ‘cause they said that if there were less than five kids in the class you should send them off to have a free period or summat. But like, I’m already romantically involved with one of my students; what other shenanigans could I get into?”

Louis giggles, placing his books down on the closest table and heading straight for the windows, where he begins to lower the blinds.

“What are you doing?” she asks him, furrowing her brow.

“I’m closing the blinds, what does it look like I’m doing?” he replies in mock contempt, stretching to reach up high, and oh god that shouldn’t be legal. He’s so small and gorgeous and his butt is like, the best thing ever and Iris can’t quite understand exactly how she landed this boy.

“Yeah, but… why?”

“Well,” he says, dropping back to his feet, “I don’t know about you, but I plan on kissing the hell out of you this period, and like, I’d prefer if we kept that private from the rest of the school.”

Iris scoffs, folding her arms over her chest. She wants to be mad, but… she’s not really. In fact, Louis’ intentions actually don’t sound bad at all, so maybe she should give in, accept the fact that they’re probably going to end this period lying together on top of one of the desks. “I’m actually serious about the whole doing work thing,” is what she says instead. “I’d really prefer if you got it done.”

In reply, Louis turns to her and pouts, halfway through closing a blind. He proceeds to give her puppy dog eyes, mumbling a quiet “No”, and he’s what, almost eighteen years old and basically an adult, yet Iris is still tempted by the plea in his eyes, still feels guilt and shame for ever arguing against such a beautiful creature. _He must always get what he wants,_ Iris thinks, _if this is the look he gives people who go against his wishes._

“Yes,” she fires back, determined not to let it get to her.

“No,” he repeats, and his desperate expression goes unaffected.

She sighs, knowing this could go on for days, and says “Alright, I’ll make a compromise. For every question you complete correctly on this worksheet,” she says, pulling out a sheet of paper from her folders, “I’ll let you kiss me.”

Louis’ face lights up at the idea, and it’s like making a dog do tricks for treats, honestly. He finishes closing the blinds with haste before hurrying over to his seat, patting his hands excitedly on the table. She’s never in her teaching career seen a student so eager to do work, but the context of this is a little different, admittedly.

She giggles at his enthusiasm, placing the sheet in front of him before seating herself down on the desk beside him so she can watch over and offer assistance when needed. He begins work immediately, scribbling answers which are sure to be illegible, pen moving frantically across the paper.

It becomes a little too quiet, with Louis so focused on his work and no other surrounding students to offer background noise, so Iris suggests that Louis should play some music to fill the silence. He agrees, pulls out his phone, and before pressing play informs her that this is his ‘make out playlist’ which he put together the other night, and really that should be the first sign that this is a bad idea. The opening notes of ‘Do I Wanna Know’ by Arctic Monkeys plays, and it’s so fucking provocative that she nearly faints. It fades into the distorted guitar notes of The Weeknd, and it’s about halfway through this second song that Iris politely asks Louis if she could change it.

“You don’t like my make out playlist?” he asks, pausing his work to look up at her with that same guilt-triggering expression.

“No, I do, it’s just… a bit too much for a Monday morning at work,” she concludes, as that’s probably the most sensible way to put it.

“’Kay,” he says, handing her his phone so she can scroll through his music library. She eventually settles on The Strokes, and Louis happily agrees, mouthing the lyrics to the songs as he works through the questions.

He needs a bit of help with some of them, but when he does finally hit a reasonable answer he’ll drop his pen and pull Iris down into a sloppy kiss, and no matter how many times he does it she’ll always be a little caught off guard by the sudden action, producing a noise of surprise against his lips.

“So this is nice,” he says a few minutes later, when he has three or so questions left to complete. Iris hums in agreement, because it has been nice, really, with Louis’ kisses and the pleasing background music and just generally being able to spend time together like this. “But I’m starting to get bored,” he finishes, turning to her with a completely serious expression.

“You only have, like, three more questions left. Just, like… _finish them_.” She urges, finding his stubbornness and short attention span quite infuriating.

“But, I wanna do… other things,” he whines, already beginning to scoot closer, pushing his work aside.

“We can do other things when you’ve finished—“ she promises, but is interrupted by Louis essentially tackling her to the floor, attacking her with wet, fervent kisses which send her a little bit insane. She doesn’t even have time to squeal or make any sound of protest; can’t spare the energy. So she just allows the inevitable to happen, because honestly, she expected it, and fighting it would be no use.

Louis kisses just like he always does; first forceful and deep and breathless, before relaxing into soft, sweet movements. It’s this alternation of pressure which makes Iris melt into him; this perfect balance with prompts her to thread her fingers through his hair. They’ve done this so many times that it’s become routine now, among the other things which happen in her flat on a weekly basis.

They’re perched half on the floor, half against the leg of a table. From the painful throbbing in her arm, Iris is pretty certain that she injured something when Louis yanked her down into this position, but she’s forgotten how to care.

It starts to get a little heavy and breathless and rough, so Louis slows it down with a few warm pecks to her cheek before nuzzling contently into her shoulder, sighing from happiness. In that short moment she’s granted the chance to catch her breath and work out her bearings, and oh God, there is literally no hope for her now. She’s completely and utterly gone for him. So much, that she even just allowed him to snog her at _work_ , of all places. And probably injure her forearm in the process as well.

 _Oh God,_ she suddenly thinks, _what if somebody saw that what if somebody knows what if I’m going to gaol._

Ambushed by an abrupt horde of worries, her eyes spring open. She can feel her heartbeat quickening in her chest as she exhales short, rapid puffs of breath. _What if someone saw?_

“Stop thinking about it,” a groggy voice murmurs from her chest, making her snap out of her daze. She comes back to reality: ‘Someday’ by The Strokes is playing in the background, Louis is lying on top of her and the blinds are closed. _The blinds are closed._

“How’d you know I was—“

“Your heartbeat. It got really fast and loud,” he explains, and Iris just blinks down at him, unsure how to reply. He begins to shuffle around, eventually peering up at her with a look of sincerity. “’s fine, okay?” he assures her, and yeah it is fine, because the blinds are closed and nobody saw. She nods back at him, and Louis takes it as his cue to smile warmly and settle back into her, pressing his face against her collarbone. “I like your perfume,” he mumbles, pressing a quick kiss to the skin there. “It smells like grapefruit.”

“Grapefruit?” Iris repeats, fairly certain that that was not the scent promised on the packaging.

“Yeah, you smell like grapefruit.” He decides with a smile, raising a hand to cup her cheek and pulling her down until their noses touch. And because they’re pressed so close together and all she can smell when she breathes in is the scent of his cologne and because everything around her feels like him, she leans forward just that lilt bit more and kisses him.

He has one hand at her cheek, the other resting right over her hipbone, laying her down flat. That hand keeps hesitantly travelling upwards, tentatively grazing over her body, fingertips barely brushing her skin. She’s so preoccupied with Louis’ mouth that she hardly even notices, and when he suddenly pulls away, biting down on his lower lip while flickering his eyes from her face to the hand he has situated under her left breast and back again, she wonders how it got there without her knowledge.

But he’s asking for permission to touch her, and that’s adorable, so she allows a brief nod before pressing her lips back to his.

There’s hesitation; a small moment where Louis’ hand just pauses in mid-air, as if he’s in disbelief that he gets to do this. The tips of his fingers make contact, sweeping gently over the soft curve of her breast. His hands are shaky and inexperienced, trembling slightly with the fear that he’s gonna stuff it up somehow, and Iris wonders how many times he’s done this.

But then his entire palm is cupped over her, and his fingers are digging in, feeling her fullness, and Iris lets out an involuntary sigh of relief to finally be touched.

Louis groans into the kiss, his hand squeezing her breast tighter, and Iris thinks that if someone were to discover them like this, she’d definitely lose her job. She doesn’t care so much now; can’t understand how she could ever turn away something as good as this for the sake of being cautious. Especially when Louis’ tongue is swiping against her lower lip, pushing its way into her mouth.

Again, it starts to become too hot and heavy for a Monday morning, so they tone it down and opt instead to cuddle on the floor. They’re just two people, tangled together in the centre of a classroom, staring up at the ceiling. Iris doesn’t know exactly how her life came to this point, but she’s not complaining.

“There’s only, like, five more minutes until the end of the period,” Louis comments, his prominent accent cutting the silence, and Iris is reminded of a question which she’s been meaning to ask for quite some time.

“Hey, why do you have a Yorkshire accent?” she asks out of the blue, turning to him. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but they’re in Manchester, and Manchester certainly isn’t in the county of Yorkshire, so naturally she’s curious.

“I was born there, moved here when I was seven ‘cause of me dads job,” he explains, grabbing her hand to mindlessly lace their fingers together.

“Whereabouts in Yorkshire did you used to live?” she asks.

“Doncaster,” he replies “What about you? I know you’re not from here.”

“Harrogate,” she answers.

“What are your family like? You haven’t told me much about them,” he observes, and it’s true; Iris hasn’t told Louis much about her family. In fact, she honestly can’t ever recall mentioning them.

Louis’ told her a lot about his; told her about how his real dad walked out on him and his mother when he was only two days old, and that because of that he’s always been inseparably close to his mum. He’s told her about how he adopted the last name of his step-dad, who he respects a lot more and even addresses as if he were his real father. He’s listed all the names of his sisters and what they’re all interested in. But whenever they’d swap over and Iris would start sharing a little bit about her life, it would always be about Zara and Niall or uni or even sadly, her cat. It’s not that her family is a sensitive topic, it’s just that they’re living in a completely different town to her, and on some occasions, especially when Louis’ there looking happy and sunned and gorgeous as ever, Iris kinda forgets that they exist.

“Well, my parents split up when I was fifteen. My dad works in IT and my mum owns a catering business, but they’re both gonna retire soon, probably. Maybe not my mum because she’s a bit of a workaholic and will most likely still be going when she’s eighty, but yeah.

“I have a brother called Marcus and he’s two years older than me. He’s married to this woman called Naomi and they have a son called Stephen, who’s one. He’s really cute because Naomi’s Nigerian, so he’s got like, big green eyes from my brother, but then really tanned skin from Naomi. They live in Bromley, in London, so I don’t get to see them much. Used to be really close to Marcus when we were growing up, though. The there’s my younger sister Abby, who my parents had a bit later. She’s seventeen and doing sixth form this year,”

“Like me?” Louis interrupts, a small smile on his face.

“Yeah,” Iris mumbles, a crease splitting her brow “…like you.”

He nods and gestures for her to continue, but she can’t, not when something as large as that has just come to her attention.

Louis is the same age as Abby. Louis is the same age as Abby, and Iris is not okay with that. Abby’s young enough for Iris to have clear memories of her in nappies and cots and highchairs, so she’s always thought of her as a baby, almost. Even now, whenever Iris will visit her family in Harrogate, Abby will try to say something mature and Iris will jokingly reply back with ‘shut up, you’re like, five’. Because Iris does see Abby that way; she has this image in her head of her younger sister walking home from reception with her too-big school uniform and knobbly knees. In fact, she’s still in denial that she’s started high school, even thought she was in Year 7, like, six years ago.

So Louis is the same age as Abby, and yet Iris was kissing him only a minute ago. That kinda makes her want to jump out the nearest window and flee to some distant land.

Louis notices a shift in her behaviour and reacts immediately by sitting up, saying “Baby, what’s wrong?”

She looks directly into his eyes, studies his worried expression. _He’s pretty much eighteen,_ she tells herself. _Christmas break is in two weeks, and on the 24 th, he’ll no longer be a minor. It’s fine. _

“Nothing, I just…I—“ she’s interrupted by the bell, alerting them of the class’ finish. Iris frankly forgot that other things existed, forgot that there’s a sheet of questions on the desk which still haven’t been completed, forgot that The Strokes are still playing, forgot that she’s still at work and has more classes to teach today.

Louis stands up, still watching her with the same weary expression as he pulls her to her feet. Iris briefly considers telling him; explaining that the reason why she’s suddenly so iffy is because their age gap is actually more severe than she’d thought. But it’s morning tea break, and she’s not exactly sure if she can manage a single word on the subject of morals and the risks of their relationship at this point in time, so instead she says “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”, gently touching his hands.

“Yeah,” he agrees, placing a quick kiss to her lips before heading towards the door, waving on his way out.

 _It’s fine,_ she assures herself as she watches him cross the football pitch, the rich burgundy of his uniform contrasting greatly against the lush green of the lawn

_We’re fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE COMMENT  
> I'd love to know what you're thinking :)x


	9. Chapter 9

Meanwhile, on an entirely different planet, it seems, from Iris’ current exclusion from everything not involving Louis, another relationship is forming. This time it’s Niall and that girl he’d met at the pub and texted at the football game. Bonnie, is her name. She’s twenty three, a nurse in training, and completely out of his league. Niall seems oblivious to this fact, however. Or, he’s choosing not to care.

They met due to sheer coincidence, both just happening to be a little drunk and at the same pub, celebrating their mutual friend Simon’s return from his two month trip to the US. Niall had waltzed up to the bar, about to order his fifth (or sixth?) pint of lager for the night, when he noticed a girl perched on the barstool beside him with her hands in her purse. He’d been sort of paralysed by the way her mascara-clumped eyelashes fell against her cheek and the plethora of freckles dotted across her nose and the tiny bit of side-boob that her dress cut revealed, but once he’d somewhat composed himself, he’d confidently said “Hey,” in a loud tone, fighting to be heard over the abundance of chatter and clinking glasses.

Bonnie’s eyes had flickered up, and Niall found himself a little bit woozy by the colour of them; light green, speckled and rimmed with tiny bursts of emerald.

Niall wasn’t so much as a pretty sight for Bonnie, however. His face was flushed from the alcohol and the tight space, his pupils were dilated to an extreme extent, and his hair was mussed up and sticky from sweat. But she’d found the strength of his Irish accent and the way his tie was hanging loosely and crookedly around his neck and the way he was stumbling around like a clumsy puppy, to be strangely endearing. And so that’s how they ended up spending the remainder of the night sat at the bar together, ordering a countless number of drinks and laughing at the silliest of things.

He’d walked her out of the pub with far less weight in his wallet but a warmth in his tummy which made it all worth it. Niall doesn’t often get put on these situations, when there’s a pretty girl in front of him who probably wouldn’t mind if he suggested they go back to his, but when he does he often won’t waste the opportunity to end the night with a satisfying shag. Especially when there are seven or so pints in his system. But this time it felt different.

Instead of waking up in the morning with a pounding headache and a naked girl in his bed which he’ll have to get rid of before his brother Greg arrives, Niall just wants to get her number; nothing more. It’s not that he doesn’t want to fuck her. Honestly, he totally would. But that would make her just another one-night stand, and Niall doesn’t want that. It sounds phenomenally cheesy and he’ll probably never admit it to anybody, but sitting with her at the bar, watching the crinkles by her eyes as she laughed and listening to her tell stories of uni and her hometown of Newcastle, Niall couldn’t help but wonder if Bonnie was ‘the one’.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Or the fact that he’s been single for over a year. ‘Cause like, he barely knows her. What’s to say she’s not the reincarnation of the devil when she’s sober and not in an environment packed with cheery chatter and celebration?

Nevertheless, he asked for her number as they waited on the street kerb for their cabs, and she accepted, and Niall maybe broke his face with the all-out drunken grin he gave her.

Over the next few days they’d found it difficult to establish an actual time to meet up again. Niall works most nights, backstage at gigs of artists who he’s seen far too many times before, and Bonnie spends the day learning how to be a nurse, so they keep it as short little texts to each other every hour, conversations which extend for days. Bonnie will send him something silly as she sits at the back of class, being taught how to run basic blood pressure tests, and Niall will stop fiddling around with cords and soundboards to reach into his pocket and smile like an idiot at his phone.

They do get a chance to meet up a few times, however, and it’s by the fifth date that Niall thinks that maybe they’re switching from casual to serious; maybe it’s more than just stuffing around. They shagged at the end of the last date, and Niall’s already met her mother by accident. He’d be downright lying to himself if he said that things hadn’t been progressing between the two. They’ve been moving at such a fast pace; so fast, that if it were anyone else Niall would’ve already called it quits the minute after she’d introduced him to her mother as her boyfriend having only known each other for three weeks. But it felt right. Simple and easy and like a puzzle piece falling into place.

They’re moving so fast, and Niall _likes_ it.

So he thinks it’s about time he introduced Bonnie to two of the other most important women in his life, Iris and Zara. He’s booked a table for four at an Italian restaurant in central Manchester, and is hoping that his two best friends will be able to bond nicely with his new girlfriend, considering she’ll probably be hanging around for quite some time to come. Yeah, he’s that serious about her.

He’s just hoping the night goes well, and that Zara doesn’t mention The Cheeseburger Incident and Iris doesn’t start telling the story of how he once got so pissed that he ended up passing out on the banks of River Irwell and sharing a blanket with a tramp. If they can avoid those two topics, or basically any other tale of Niall’s intoxicated misadventures, it should be fine.

* * *

 

Iris would be lying if she said she didn’t want to go to tonight’s dinner. Ever since the Man City vs Liverpool match, where Niall had actively choose to ignore a suspenseful football game and instead text this mystery girl, she’s been dying to meet her.

It’s mostly because she feels quite protective over Niall. Although on their nights out Niall will often go around acting like he’s a total stud, Iris knows that deep down he’s just an easily startled puppy. He’s had his heart broken before, and it wasn’t pretty. So to ensure that history doesn’t repeat itself, Iris wants to meet this girl and make her own judgements on whether it would be wise for Niall to see her any longer.

But on the other hand, The Breakfast Club is airing on tele tonight, and it would be pretty tragic if she missed it.

 _No,_ she thinks to herself, _you can’t let your inner John Hughes fan make all your decisions. You’re attending this dinner and that’s final._

Her outfit is, admittedly, not the best medley of colours and textures she’s ever assembled. It’s just a dress she found on the sale rack at Primark and the pair of heels she wore to Marcus and Naomi’s wedding all that time ago. But, you know, when Louis isn’t in any way involved, Iris doesn’t see the point in showing effort.

She’s meeting Zara in ten or so minutes, and from there the two are going to take the bus, since Iris’ piece of shit of a car is being serviced at the mechanics and Zara doesn’t even own one. It’s really not Iris’ ideal method of transport, but Niall denied her request for him to pick the two girls up because he has ‘something special’ planned for him and his girl beforehand and simply couldn’t fit the twenty minute journey in. Iris feels mildly insulted. She’s being disregarded by a man who once slept with a tramp.

So now they have to take the bus. At night. In Manchester.

It’s a good thing that Zara’s a red belt in karate.

After checking her bag to ensure she hasn’t forgotten anything vital, she picks up the remote and grudgingly switches off the tele, upset that one of her favourite movies is about to air and yet she won’t be around to watch it. There’s a knock on the door which could only signify Zara’s arrival, and so Iris pushes herself of the couch to greet her.

It’s a standard reception of playful banter and sarcastic insults, and Iris really appreciates the normality of it all. Pretty much everything’s been peculiar these past few weeks; Iris is kissing a boy who’s barely legal, and Niall is spending less time getting drunk and more time raving about his fondness for the girl he’s bringing tonight. Very out of the ordinary.

After a few minutes of sorting themselves out in terms of public presentation, together they exit Iris’ building, synchronously pulling their coats closer to shield them from the early December chill. It’s bitter and icy and Iris is going to make sure Niall compensates for forcing the two to walk through this wind.

The muted glow of the streetlamps lining the road guide them towards a bus stop on the corner. Car headlights dash past and people are scattered along the footpaths, either returning home from work or heading out for some Saturday night festivities.

“Hey, why don’t we just ditch the bus and call a cab?” Iris asks as one zooms by, wondering how neither of them thought of that option before.

“Do you honestly think either of us have enough money for the cab fare? Like, if Niall wasn’t paying for our meals and stuff, _I wouldn’t be here._ I’m broke as fuck until Friday.”

And true, even though they are adults (sad excuses, mind you) with proper jobs and that, it still often feels as if the financial suffering of uni will never end, and there’s always those few days before payday where Iris’ bank account resembles the tip jar of an out-of-tune busker.

She doesn’t get a chance to voice an agreement, as the bus chooses that moment to roll up to the kerb, stopping with a hiss and a jolt. They board and fall into two seats far up the back, Zara lifting her feet up onto the seat in front of her because she can.

“So,” she huffs as the bus begins to move, “Niall’s finally found himself a girl.”

“I know,” Iris replies, mirroring her disbelief, “I thought he’d be single forever.”

“Has he told you anything about her? ‘Cause like, he’s barely even mentioned her name to me,” Zara says.

“No,” she answers, “Although at that football game we went to ‘bout a month ago he kept texting this girl, I remember. And he was like, really into it and stuff. Didn’t even realise that we scored a goal at one point. Never mentioned her name though.”

“Whatever her name is, she better treat him right,” Zara grumbles, recalling that slag-who-should-not-be-named from uni who saw their friend as merely a toy to be played with and left abandoned.

Sometimes, Iris and Zara feel as if they’re Niall’s parents, out to protect and comfort him. It’s kind of fitting, with tonight’s dinner having a sort of ‘Meet the Parents’ aura about it. Iris might even pull out her phone, scroll through pictures of Niall at uni and show them to this girl like it’s a baby photo album.

Iris hums in agreement and the two lapse into a silence as the bus takes them further towards Manchester’s centre.

“Speaking of,” Zara starts as they pass a bar overloading with people, “How are you and Louis going? You haven’t said much about him recently.”

“We’re doing fine,” she responds simply, and it is definitely the truth. In fact, they’re going so fine, that that’s the reason Iris hasn’t been bringing him up in conversation recently; there’s nothing to talk about. They’re just cruising through in their label-free relationship, hanging out in Iris’ flat and whatnot, not causing any dramas.

She’s over that whole faze where she worried excessively about their age gap and kept questioning her morals and motives. She isn’t so iffy about it anymore, because she knows for a fact that she’s not the female equivalent of Humbert Humbert. It’s not Louis’ innocence which attracts her to him; not his complaining about coursework or the way he’ll wander around her flat in his school uniform, how he still has to ask the definitions of some of the words she says, or how he’ll touch her with trembling, inexperienced hands, still be amazed that he gets to feel a girl’s chest. No, all that stuff’s a turn-off, if anything. What she does like is Louis as a person; the way he laughs like an angel with his eyes all crinkled, how he’s so sweet and caring and lovely, and his stupid jokes which catch her off guard and make her laugh out loud like a mad person. Like, Iris has had boyfriends before, but none of them at first made her feel the same warmth that Louis has. He’s special. He really is.

“So what, do you just like… fuck in the store cupboards at school and stuff?” Zara asks bluntly as she inspects her nails.

“No,” Iris splutters with wide eyes, turning to her friend with a look of incredulity. “Why would you think that?”

“Dunno. That’s what teacher student relationships are stereotyped as, I guess,” she shrugs. “So like, what do you do then?”

“We just… kiss… and watch movies… and stuff.”

“ _And stuff._ ” Zara repeats with a knowing look in her eyes.

“Shut up,” Iris groans, elbowing her.

“And is this all done at your flat? Like, not even once at school?”

“Well, we did it once at school, actually. No, _twice,_ ” she says, remembering.

“And did it feel better, knowing you could get caught?” Zara asks, and Iris is starting to get suspicious with all these questions. But then again, Zara’s always been quizzical like this, serving as Iris’ therapist, counsellor, and sometimes even doctor. 

“Fuck, not really. Both times I ended up getting really apprehensive about it. He seemed to like it though.”  

“Is he as ‘good in the sheets’ as you bet he’d be?” Zara muses teasingly as she digs through her purse.

“Wha—we haven’t even had sex yet Zara, what are you—?”

“You haven’t fucked yet?!” she perks up, far too loud for Iris’ liking. Everything about this conversation is far too loud for Iris’ liking. They’re in public, for god’s sake.

“No,” Iris hisses like it’s the obvious answer, wearing a look of complete disbelief.

Iris and Louis haven’t had sex, simple as that. It’s not like Iris has stopped fantasising about it or anything. Honestly, she still has plenty of scenarios which she envisions herself and Louis in right before she goes to bed, including on-top-of-desk sex, behind-desk sex, store room sex, backseat-of-car sex, change room sex, shower sex, and many, many more. But has she ever tried to play out one of those fantasies? No, because like, she wants things to be easy and natural with Louis, doesn’t want to force him into anything. Especially since he’s under the legal limit.

“What the fuck, Iris? All you used to do was bang on about how much you wanted to get into his pants, and now, when you have a very clear opportunity to do so on a _daily basis,_ you’re passing it up?”

“I don’t want to pressure him into anything—“ Iris defends, but is cut off.

“He’s nearly eighteen. This is his _prime._ He’s at his sexual peek. He probably wants it more than you do. Fuck, is he tense when you touch him? He must be getting restless with all the shagging you’re depriving him of.”

 _Oh god,_ she thinks, _don’t imagine Louis masturbating. **Don’t imagine Louis masturbating.** Fuck._

“Could we not talk about this, thank you,” she says politely, her cheeks reddening as she notices an old lady with a trolley a few rows ahead of them on the near empty bus, who was likely listening in for a majority of that conversation.

Zara sighs, and in that very moment Iris’ phone buzzes, alerting her of a new text message. Reaching for it, she arrives at the lock screen only to discover it’s from Louis, who she gave her number to a couple of weeks ago. Oh Christ, not now.

**heyy :)**

_What do you want,_ is what she sends back, still a bit annoyed from Zara’s intricate criticism of her sex life involving this boy.

**whoa babe, I just wanted to chat, is all :(**

And yeah, maybe she shouldn’t take all her anger out on him, considering he has no knowledge of the conversation she’d just shared with Zara.

“Is he texting you?” the twat coos over-exaggeratingly, leaning over in an attempt to view Iris’ phone screen.

“Fuck off,” she grumbles, nudging her away with all her strength. It’s not much, considering she’s about as thin as a twig and has the muscle density of a four year old, but still. Iris hates Zara.

 _Sorry I’m just really annoyed right now,_ she types out to Louis, sinking her teeth into her lower lip.

**should I go, or…??**

_No, it’s fine :)_

He sends back a smiling emoji. Then an entire three line’s worth of frog emojis for good measure. Iris is dating an idiot.

She has about two seconds to smile helplessly at her phone screen before Zara’s asking “ _Frog emojis?_ ”, and then she remembers that she’s on a bus and her friend is a twat and maybe she should seek more privacy next time Louis decides to text her ridiculous things.

Before she can scold Zara for her inability to mind her own damn business, the bus comes to a halt, and because Zara’s casually lifting herself off her seat, muttering a quick ‘this is our stop’, she guesses she was the one who pressed the button.

The restaurant has a nice interior, with burnt sienna chairs, a wall decorated with shelves upon shelves of wine bottles, and just generally a warm, pleasant atmosphere. They’re guided by a host towards a table at the back, which sits Niall, dressed in a crisp white shirt and skinny black tie, and a girl with striking green eyes wearing a Prince of Wales patterned shift dress. Iris already approves.

Upon noticing their arrival, Niall shoots up out of his seat and fixes the creases in his trousers, hailing them over. He appears a little nervous, and it’s frankly quite endearing.

“Heyyyy,” Zara cheers enthusiastically, skipping her way over. She pulls Niall into a one-armed hug, and then stands back so Iris can do the same.

“Sorry we’re a little late,” Iris adds, offering a sheepish look.

“Should be,” Niall replies, all mock contempt.

“Who’s this?” Zara asks, gesturing towards the girl, who’s now stood up and is waiting patiently to the side.

“Oh, um,” Niall says, clearing his throat. “Guys, I’d like you to meet Bonnie.”

Bonnie steps forward with a polite smile, her eyes crinkling. “Hi, pleasure to meet you,” she says.

Iris and Zara mutter similar things back, and Iris kinda likes her already, she’s decided.

“You never told me that your two best friends are girls, Niall,” Bonnie adds quietly to her boyfriend. She’s joking, mostly, but behind it she’s asking for reassurance.

“Don’t worry,” Niall says to her coolly, placing an arm around her shoulders. “Iris and Zara are both taken.”

And _‘taken’._ Iris is taken by Louis, apparently. She can’t help but dwell on that.

Like, she knows they’re a thing, but marking Iris as a possession of Louis’? Using the connotation that they’re in a one hundred percent committed, exclusive, official relationship? Suggesting that they’re boyfriend and girlfriend? Iris might need to sit down, if that’s the way Niall thinks of them.

 _Does everyone think of us that way? Are we really giving off that impression? ‘Cause like, were not…_ that. _Honestly. We haven’t discussed any of this._  

It really shouldn’t be a big deal. Like, how else was Niall supposed to describe Iris’ relationship status? By explaining the whole situation from start to end? Of course not. She’s overreacting; making something out of nothing. She needs to calm down and stop being so sensitive.

She’s theorised that maybe seeing a student is heightening her capacity for worry.  

The four sit down at their table, all reaching for their menus. A light conversation begins, in which they each share a bit about themselves, discuss their professions. As Iris scans over the menu choices, listening to Zara explain her modelling career, she feels a vibration in her bag and remembers Louis and the short-lived conversation they’d had before Zara had gone and been a twat. Knowing how he can get when she doesn’t reply for a lengthy period of time, she checks to make sure nobody’s watching before taking an indistinct peek at her phone screen.

 **so what are you doing?** , is the message that he’s sent.

 _Eating at a restaurant with the squad and Niall’s new gf,_ she types back carefully to him, hoping to avoid bringing attention to herself. She’s trying to make a good first impression here, and texting during a conversation isn’t exactly the best look. Reflecting on that, she decides to maybe put her phone away and start, you know… being polite.

The introductory chatter lasts until a waiter interrupts to take their orders. Iris goes first, deciding on a pasta dish with an Italian name which she’s not going to even bother trying to pronounce. It has smoked duck and porcini mushrooms, so not a bad choice, really. While everyone else recites their orders, Iris wonders if she should maybe check her phone again. Just quickly. For like, one second. Tops.

 **cool** , is what Louis’ replied, followed by a thumbs up.

She bites her lip, inwardly debating on whether to reply or make an excuse to end the conversation there for the night. However the waiter grabs her attention by opening the bottle of chardonnay Niall bought and asking if she’d like some. She nods a yes and watches the wine pour into her glass, gesturing for him to stop once it looks about right. And as he moves on to fill Niall’s glass, Iris can’t help but feel the need to do something with her fingers, and so she conclusively replies to Louis.

_What about you?_

His reply is nearly instant. **Doing my homework… which YOU SET.**

_Do you need help with it or something?_

**no it’s just reallllly long and boring :(**

_I thought you’d like film analysis_

**I don’t get you.**

**like, how do you teach this stuff for a living??**

**how can you like English so much???**

She tries with all her might to stifle a laugh as she stares at her phone, but is suddenly bought back to reality when she hears Bonnie ask, “So Iris, what do you do?”

“Oh,” she almost squeaks from surprise, tossing her phone deep into the confines of her bag without a second look. “Uh, I’m an English and History teacher at a secondary school.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” she says, “Where do you teach?”

“This place up north called Farleigh Heights. It’s uh… quite a small school, so a really close-knit community, and, yeah… it’s good,” she answers, taking a sip of wine.

They continue to converse, but Iris just can’t shake the thought of Louis out of her head, can’t quite focus on the words leaving Bonnie’s mouth. It progresses like that for the next few minutes or so, and when the subject is changed, Iris doesn’t hesitate to reach for her phone once more.

 **why are you so obsessed with the English language????** , is what flashes up on her lock screen, and she bites her lip to conceal a smile, knowing the perfect reply to that.

_I'm actually fluent in French you know_

***gasp* you are?!**

It's not really something she thinks about often, but yes, she can speak fluent French. Along with all her English Literature and Teaching courses, she studied it on the side at university simply because she enjoyed it at secondary school. It's only ever really come in handy once, when she and Zara spent a week in Paris to commemorate their finishing of uni exams. That trip has been nicknamed over the years as 'the week we don't talk about’, mostly because a lot of things happened which they'd both prefer to forget (let's just say that drunk Zara is pretty chill and knows not to get a large pinstripe tattoo on her lower back, but drunk Iris is an arsehole and will do exactly that).

But yeah, she is fluent in another language and at least _that_ benefits her at job interviews.

 **fuck that’s so hot** …

**speak French to me**

**talk dirty to me in French**

**pls**

_no fuck off I'm having dinner at a very respectable restaurant_

**Iris**

**you are such a disappointment**

She just smiles at her phone fondly and shakes her head, turning the device off before returning her attention back to the table. From what she's hearing, it seems that Niall's narrating the story of when he once stole a llama, and yeah it's doubtlessly the best thing that's ever happened in their group, but Iris has heard all the details more times than she can count, and Louis is probably freaking out over her unwillingness to reply.

So she opens her lock screen again to six new texts. Christ, the boy is quick. They read as follows;

**oui oui**

**baguette**

**ca va**

**vous êtes chaud**

**je ai une érection**

**avoir des relations sexuelles avec moi**

She nearly chokes on the last two.

Did he just—? Oh god.

This is certainly not something she can deal with right now. Half of it seems to be just phrases he's remembered from Year 9, the other is stuff he's obviously searched up on Google translate. Like, she knows that he's likely to be joking, that he's trying to be funny by talking dirty in a different language whilst using poor grammar, but could he not? Iris is panicking, ‘cause this is like, the first time Louis has ever mentioned anything sexual to her, and Iris is not _in any way prepared._ She can’t help but remember Zara on the bus earlier, insisting that Louis’ probably dying with sexual need right about now, and oh god what if she’s right? What if Louis _really_ wants this? What if this is all he’s been thinking about these past few weeks?

Well, she’s been thinking about it too, honestly. She’s a twenty-four year old woman with certain needs which haven’t been fulfilled lately. And she has been getting particularly restless these past few days, found that touching herself isn’t enough to satisfy her anymore.

But she’s already decided that there’s to be no sex before he turns eighteen, because she’d prefer to minimise the damage for when the charges are being laid out to her at court. It would do less harm if they didn’t engage in any sexual interactions while he’s still a minor, right? _Right?_ Oh god, she has no idea about the laws surrounding this type of behaviour. She really must do some research.

But yeah, Louis appears to be a little horny and Iris is definitely panicking, and even though she's trying so hard to conceal that, Zara is looking at her questionably like she’s just grown an extra head, and just _curse_ the day Louis Tomlinson came into her life.

But there's more texts, and they keep clogging up her notifications.

**je veux que tu me touches**

**je veux vous embrasser**

**Je vais vas te faire encule vraiment bon**

When she does finally compose herself, she begins work on a reply.

_You are a twat._

_And your grammar is atrocious._

He sends back the sunglasses emoji, the smirking emoji and the kissing emoji. He's such and idiot. Iris would sorta like to have his dick in her mouth right about now.

**aww c’mon babe**

_fuCK OFF_

**you love it**

_I'm gonna block you I swear to god_

Iris is pretty sure that the next thing he sends is a string of eggplant emojis, but she's not certain as Zara chooses that moment to start talking to her.

"You've been texting him for like, nearly the whole night," she comments, nodding down at her phone, which Iris is now definitely going to put away until later.

"Sorry," she apologises, remembering that tonight's supposed to be about Niall introducing them to Bonnie, not Iris crying over suggestive texts in a different language from her maybe boyfriend. "Louis keeps texting me in French and I'm trying to get rid of him."

"He's texting you in French?" Zara asks with incredulity. Iris can only give a sad nod. "Hey, maybe he _is_ French, like I said. That would explain his name."

"Oh, he is _not_ French." Iris promises. "His grammar is appalling and kind of makes me want to smack him."

"Not all of us are fluent, Iris." Zara reminds her, taking a sip of wine.

"Yeah, but this is a whole new level of tragic. I'm almost certain Google translate was involved."

“What’s he saying?” she asks with interest, reaching for Iris’ phone.

“Nothing,” Iris answers a bit too quickly, lunging out to stop her. “He’s just being a twat, is all.”

Zara gives her a pointed look, like she knows exactly what’s going on, and from the opposite side of the table Niall glances at her pleadingly, asking her to just cooperate and quit spending the entirety of the night with her eyes on a screen, please. And yeah, Iris thinks it’s about time to let it go. Besides, she can see her food coming.

And so she doesn't look at her phone for the rest of the night.

* * *

 

As consequence, she comes home to twenty four texts. All from Louis.

A majority of them consist of one word, complaining about her lack of replies and pleading for her to ‘ _pay attention to me pls_ ’. But then his tone becomes more apologetic, and he starts addressing her as ‘bae’ and adding sad emojis to the ends of his texts, begging for forgiveness for ‘ _whatever the fuk I did’_. It finishes with him announcing that he’s off to bed and a promise that he’ll be thinking of her while he does so. And then a few winky faces to ensure she catches the true meaning of that statement.

Turning on the tele, she switches the channel only to discover that the Breakfast Club has in fact finished. It makes her a little regretful towards going out tonight.

Well, the food was great, and Bonnie was impossibly nice and all, and Iris can definitely see a future for her and Niall, but… the whole evening was just a little boring. She knows Niall was trying to impress Bonnie, but they’d all have honestly had more fun if they’d done something a bit livelier. It was too… adult. For the three friends, it’s not in their nature to go to highly rated, expensive, inner city restaurants, all dressed in their evening wear. A club is the place you’re more likely to find them. It was too sensible, is the thing, and Iris spent a lot of the night consciously thinking about how much they stood out against all the surrounding people.

But what’s really on her mind at the moment is the whole Louis thing, where he pretty much hinted that he’s down to fuck. Or, he’s just got a sick taste in humour. Either way, Iris is still ‘down to fuck’ as well, and the 24th really couldn’t come any sooner.


	10. Chapter 10

“So I was thinking,” Louis mutters groggily into her chest one late Sunday afternoon. The windows of her flat are speckled with tiny raindrops, trickling down the glass as a reminder of this morning's storm – Louis may have trampled past her doormat earlier wearing a drenched coat and an apologetic smile. They're snuggled together on the couch, an assortment of woollen blankets draped over them for extra comfort, and Iris thinks she's found her Shangri-La.

“Hmmm?” she mumbles lazily, letting her eyelashes flutter down against her cheek. They've both been drifting in and out of consciousness the whole day, exhausted yet relieved at the school term's end. It's been an eventful few months; they've gotten together, split up, and gotten together again, all whilst trying to hide this from almost everybody they know. Now that it's winter break, however, they won't have to be as sneaky and mindful. No more lurking principals or suspicious football coaches, just the freedom to see each other whenever they please with the only obstacle being Louis' clueless mother. It's going to be fun, but right now they'd just prefer to doze off, catch up on all the missed sleep.

“That we should go out on a date,” he finishes, rolling off her and instead settling on his side, elbow digging into the cushion and hand cupped under his chin for support as he waits for her answer.

Iris was fairly close to nodding off, but Louis' proposition may have just erased all chances of rest. They have a whole week to themselves where they can do nothing but stay in and watch movies and make out and order pizza, yet he wants to spend one of those nights out in public with her. Isn't that the exact sort of thing which they're trying to avoid?

“A date?” she asks, wrinkling her nose. She wishes it doesn't have to be this way, wishes she doesn't have to reject him. But she'll be the one who ends up in prison, so she shouldn't guilt herself for making these choices.

“Yeah,” he continues excitedly, scooting up closer to her, “I mean, other couples get to do all that stuff, and I know we're a little different, but that shouldn't stop us from being able to share those same experiences. We could go out to dinner, or we could catch a movie. What harm could it do, hmm?” he says, finishing it off by planting a quick kiss to her forehead.

“Uh, _someone we know could see us_?” Iris scoffs, looking at him incredulously. “What if we run into your friends at the cinema? What if we walk into the restaurant and find that Mr Waters is placed at the table next to ours?”

“Don't worry, baby,” Louis laughs, seemingly unfazed by her list of potential disastrous scenarios. He readjusts the blankets enough so he can hover over her, before pressing himself down until their bodies are in contact and the tips of their noses are brushing together. He cups her cheeks and says, “We'll take precautions,” kisses her softly and says, “We always take precautions.”

It's true. Ever since hiding behind that bush and furiously speeding out of the school's parking lot, the two have been always mindful of their surroundings. And Iris can’t help but giggle a little when the ends of his feathery hair tickle her face, can’t help but relax into him.

“And we can go someplace on the other side of town,” he adds, voice low, as he leans in for another kiss - this one long and slow and containing just a tiny little bit of tongue; enough for Iris' toes to curl. “A place where nobody will find us,” he continues, and Iris feels his hips roll teasingly over hers, just enough for a slight tingle to be felt in her lower regions. Her hand immediately reaches out to stop him, landing over the soft curve of his hips, fingers digging into his skin. But he takes that as encouragement, however, and offers her a suggestive smirk before going again, pushing his lower half into hers, moving it around in slow, sinful circles and _oh god_. Louis may have needed time to gain his confidence when it came to feeling her up, but grinding seems to come naturally to him.

Iris knows she should stop him, fully aware that continuing this will only lead to the removal of clothing, but he's honestly making her feel so good, and why on earth would she put an end to that? He buries his face into the curve of her neck, and Iris can feel his warm, laboured breaths puff out onto her skin as he languidly rubs into her. She's slightly lost for breath because the friction is _so fucking good_ , and it doesn't take long before she's noticing a slight hardness in between them. And like, she's already wet – has been ever since that first drawn out roll of his hips – but the reminder that Louis' feeling it too, that he's actually getting hard over her, isn't easy to digest. It takes all of her strength not to curl her fingers underneath his waistband, undo the fastenings of his fly. He must be getting uncomfortable, surely.

 _No sex until he's eighteen_ , she repeats in her head for the fifth time this past minute. But keeping that promise doesn't seem in any way logical at the moment.

“Louis,” she gasps as he grinds down particularly hard, sending off sparks at the base of her spine. He only grunts in response, creasing his brow in concentration. “Louis... Louis, stop!” she commands breathlessly, lifting a hand up to cradle her forehead. He seizes his efforts at that, pulling away with a look of satisfaction. She's so flustered, and Louis will never not enjoy seeing her like this.

“So, what do you think?” he asks with a lazy smile, rolling off to the side.

“What do I think about what?” is all she can reply with, too roused up to think straight.

“Our little date,” he answers simply, sweetly pecking her lips.

“Oh,” she breathes, readjusting her clothing. “Okay,” she agrees without really thinking about it. “Sure, alright.”

“Great,” he says happily, peppering a few kisses to her cheek as she stares blankly at the ceiling. God, the boy is persuasive.

* * *

 

So apparently, it’s a surprise.

Iris has no idea what this date is going to involve. All she can say is that Louis’ going to pick her up at six, and that’s that.

She’s not even sure how he’s even going to achieve _that_ exactly, since he still hasn’t passed the theory component of his driving test and isn’t eligible to be behind the wheel.

But then again, things always seem to magically work when it comes to Louis. He knows how to get what he wants, is the thing. With a single look or word or movement he can practically have you kneeling at his feet, doing as he says. Louis is, all in all, a complete shithead, yet he manages to have everyone in the room wrapped around his finger. Iris is half in awe, half absolutely furious.

She’s also a bit conflicted as she tries to accumulate an appropriate outfit for the evening. Yes, it does seem like every goddamn time she’s expected to go out, she’s here, standing at the foot of her bed, trying to pick between this or that. But outfits are important. They make statements. And right now, Iris isn’t at all certain as to what she’d like to say to Louis.

There are many possibilities, really. She could go for something cute and casual and pretty, which’ll be nice enough for Louis to compliment her, but not enough to make him overly restless. Or, she could opt for something passably revealing to convey the impression that she would be very, very much into it if he asked. Decisions, decisions.

Eventually, she settles on something which sits somewhere in between; a crop top, high waisted skirt, platform sandals and those frilly socks they sell at the counter at Topshop. And it’s the beginning of winter, so a coat.

The worst part of the day is the minutes leading up to six o’clock, when all she can do is walk aimlessly around her flat, waiting. Her phone vibrates against the kitchen counter, informing her of a text. **Outside** , it reads, and with that, she’s practically out the door in a second, skipping down the stairwell.

Out on the street, the first thing which captures her attention is a loud beeping noise, followed by the sight of Louis behind the wheel of a parked car which seems like it was manufactured in the 90s, eagerly hailing her over. She looks at him funny and holds one arm out, as if to ask ‘why the fuck are you driving a car?’, but then he rolls down the window and shouts “I passed me theory test!” So, okay.

With that, she’s quickly making her way over to the passenger side, sliding into the vehicle. “You did?” she asks with a smile, shutting the door behind her. Now seated, she’s given the chance to fully appreciate him. He’s wearing black skinny jeans, a white tee and a khaki parka, his hair styled in that messy, tousled, signature look of his. He’s actually a complete babe right now, and Iris is very, _very_ thankful that he persuaded her to agree to this date because wow.

 “Yeah, I scored 43 - _right_ on the pass mark. But a pass is still a pass, yeah?” he says.

“Oh you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?” Iris replies, referring to their most recent assessment task before the end of term, in which Louis was one mark away from failing.

“Hey, I was _really_ proud of that essay, thank you very much,” he spits, holding a hand to his heart in defence.

“Louis,” she groans playfully, “You had no evidence, barely any structure and your ideas were underdeveloped, alright?”

“Anyway,” he says loudly, eager to change the subject. “Get over ‘ere,” he mutters fondly, flicking his head back. He unbuckles his seatbelt and scoots far closer to her, almost to the point of sitting on her lap. Hardly getting the chance to question him, his mouth plummets down to meet hers, sufficiently silencing her. Iris almost forgot about his inclination to routinely kiss her at the start of all their greetings.

“Mmm, missed you,” he moans, and Iris nearly pulls away to comment that it’s only been two days since their last meeting, but then he licks over her lower lip and that’s the end of that.

He’s quite forceful, keeping his hands placed firmly over her cheeks. And every time Iris will attempt to pull away he’ll cling onto her tighter, kiss harder.

“Louis,” she whines, gently nudging him back. “Save it for later,” she says, reminding him that they do in fact have an entire evening to themselves in which they can do whatever they please.

He pulls back with a grumble, returning to the driver’s seat. Iris waits for her breath to come back.

“So, what’s the surprise? Where are you taking me?” she asks once she’s readjusted her clothing and made herself comfortable.

“Baby, I think you’re missing the whole point of a surprise,” he answers, reigniting the car’s engine.

“Yeah, well I hate surprises, so just tell me, please,” she sighs.

Turning to look at her with an irked expression on his face, he says “Okay fine, I’ll tell you. I have no idea.”  

“You have no idea?” Iris repeats slowly, lifting a brow.

“That’s it; that’s the surprise. I have nothing planned for tonight whatsoever.” Louis admits shamelessly, peering behind Iris to check that the street’s empty before reversing out of park.

“Oh, Jesus,” she huffs, her face collapsing onto the car’s dashboard in exasperation. Just when she started to become excited over the thought of Louis taking her out, showing her off to the world, pampering and engaging in public displays of affection with her, she’s humbly reminded that he is in fact, an utter idiot, and setting high expectations when it comes to him is a bit unfair on his part.

“No, but listen yeah? It’s only six and we’ve got the whole night ahead of us, so just relax, alright? We’ll find something—“ he tries to console her, watching her disheartened figure carefully when he should be concentrating on the road. It proves him yet again to be an imbecilic twat, as when Iris pulls her head up and looks back out of pure annoyance, she notices something quite unsound.

“Louis, brake!” she intervenes frantically. While he’d been assuring her that this evening wouldn’t finish as an utter disaster, he’d been unknowingly reversing right into the path of another parked car, which Iris is fairly certain belongs to the scary man who lives two buildings down.

Louis’ feet slam down onto the brakes, causing the car to stop with a jolt. There’s a moment of silence where he peers back to inspect the damage and Iris stares at him distrustfully, about to suggest they swap places for the rest of the drive. A sigh of relief from Louis confirms there to be no major harm, just a near miss, but Iris is still quite sceptical of Louis’ driving skills.

“Oh my god, how did you even pass your driver’s test?” she wonders with disbelief. Not even a minute into this date and they’ve already been on the cusp of an accident. Iris really shouldn’t have expected any more than this.

“I honestly don’t know,” Louis admits with a sheepish smile, reversing out properly this time. “I think that instructor had a crush on me or something,”

“Hmm, I don’t even blame them. You are quite tempting.” Iris says.

“Oh, damn right I am. Tempting enough that you’re actually breaking the law because of me,” he reminds her. Iris giggles a little and leans over as far as her seatbelt will allow her to place a quick kiss to his cheek.

Louis drives the car forward, the buildings of Iris’ street passing by the windows in an array of colour. Neither of them know where they’re going, is the thing. Louis will take a couple of lefts, a couple of rights, and both of them will hope for the best. Iris isn’t entirely sure she’s comfortable with this arrangement, and she should probably voice that before they get too far into the evening.

“Actually, how about we just go back to my flat and chill instead?” she suggests. Usually, she’d have nothing against Louis’ spontaneity, but it’s their first date in public together and Iris would rather keep it safe by having a set itinerary. Who knows where they could end up and who they could run into? “There’s this documentary on Channel 5 which sounds interesting—“

“No, I wanna take you somewhere, and… and buy you things,” he protests with a pout, sufficiently turning himself into frankly one of the most adorable things she’s ever seen. How can she say no?

“Alright, fine,” she gives in with a huff. “But could we at least have some idea as to where we’re heading?”

“Well, where do you want to go?” Louis asks simply, looking at her with anticipation.

She allows a moment to ponder it, evaluate the pros and cons of each potential destination. It sounds uptight and overly sensible, like she’s focusing more on practicality than actual enjoyment, but if someone they know were to recognise them together…

“The city,” she eventually answers. It’s Thursday evening, the beginning of winter. There’ll be crowds of commuters which they can blend into, vast buildings which they can get lost in. Surely nobody they know could be in the city at this time of the week.

“The city it is then,” he confirms, pushing his foot down on the accelerator a little harder.

A silence ensues as they travel further towards Manchester’s centre. Following that mishap, Louis is deeply concentrated on the road ahead of him, brow furrowing.

Everything about him just seems so beautiful; the corners of his eyes, the tip of his nose, the form of his ankles. Iris’ gaze lands on his prominent-veined, calloused hands which grip the steering wheel as he makes a turn.

It’s quite a distracting sight, as suddenly all she can think about is what those hands would look like clawing at bedsheets or grasping her hips tightly as he fucked her. Oh god. It seems that every day her restlessness is increasing, and it’s not helping in the slightest that Louis’ chosen today to look especially ravishing.

“So,” he begins with the clearing of his throat. “You won’t be coming back until January?”

Iris will be spending the week spanning over Christmas and New Year’s with her family in Harrogate, and it’s been an ongoing conversation between them ever since she broke the news. It’s disappointing on Louis’ part especially, because not only is it cutting out an entire week of the limited time they have to be together freely, but she’s going to miss his birthday, too.

But family is family, and Iris really can’t do anything about it.

“Yeah,” she sighs, looking to her feet.

“You can’t… you can’t come back in the middle or anything? Or spend New Year’s here?” he tries hopefully, wanting to spend as much time with her as possible.

“Louis, this is my family. I barely get to see them, since everyone’s so branched out. We have five days in between when I get back and the new term starts. That’s plenty of time.”

“Yeah, but you won’t be around for my birthday,” he whines.

“I promise we’ll celebrate it together when I get back, okay? Besides, I’ll need to give you your presents.” 

Iris has been saving for a couple of weeks now, been in touch with Niall for a few special arrangements. She’s planning on spoiling him a bit, since he’s made her first term at Farleigh Heights at least bearable, and she figures he deserves something nice in return.

“Can’t believe I’m gonna be eighteen in a week,” Louis mutters, coming to a slow stop at a traffic light. “Feels like I’ve been waiting forever.”

 _Oh Louis,_ she thinks as he runs a hand through his hair – making it a tousled, gorgeous mess – and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. _I know exactly what you mean._

* * *

 

They end up at an art gallery.

It wasn’t exactly a planned destination, they just sort of parked the car, wandered around for a couple of minutes before spotting some banners promoting a contemporary art exhibition, and then it just kinda happened.

They enter the gallery’s foyer, passing an information desk stocked with brochures and guides. It’s free entry and open until nine o’clock at night, meaning they can just amble their way in.

Iris feels something warm on her hand, and looks down to discover Louis’ fingers, grasping for hers as he tries to casually slip her hand into his. She smiles and lets him, squeezing his hand tight.

There aren’t many people in the gallery, just the one or two staff members and a handful of others, either entering or exiting the building. But these people are all seeing this, seeing these two strangers, a boy and a girl, intertwining their hands and walking side by side, and none of them are batting an eyelash.

Nobody knows that she’s a secondary school teacher and he’s a sixth form student. Nobody’s judging them or ordering that they can’t be together. And it’s just… just the most relaxing thing ever. She finds herself giving Louis’ hand another gentle tug, and then leans her head against his shoulder, sighing contently.

Louis smiles down at her, and keeps the displays of affection going because it’s still not enough, like the fact that they’re together needs to be shouted to the world, broadcasted on television, put on large banners on the sides of motorways. He lets go of her hand and instead slips it around her waist, pulling her impossibly close to him, and then he kisses the side of her head, his lips lingering longer than they need to.

Together, they proceed down a hallway and through an arch, entering the first showroom of the contemporary art section.

With the exception of the artworks it contains, everything in the room is painted white; walls, ceiling, and even floor. It emits this fluorescent feel, this illusion that everything is glowing. All the objects in the room look stripped bare and vulnerable and like they’ve got nothing to hide behind. She looks at the paintings and sculptures, the people interpreting them, and notes how everything seems to be in its most pure and natural form. Everything is stark.

Louis’ hand slips from her waist and he wanders a little to the left, head tilted upwards as he takes everything in. He looks like a piece of art himself, like this plain backdrop is bringing to light all his beauty, enhancing it, making it seem like he’s not even real.

The gallery appears echoic, like you could whisper the tiniest of words and it would project towards every corner. Iris feels awfully exposed.

Her feet begin to drift aimlessly in a random direction, dragging her towards the artworks lining the walls. There’s a giant image of a fingerprint sliding across a page in black ink, and a painting of a couple whose heads have been smudged and scraped and splattered with black and white acrylic, like clouds of static.

She looks to her right and sees a set of black and white photographs of historical events, each with added pops of colours and patterns. Vietnam War soldiers with floral helmets, the Twin Towers covered in pink and blue roses. There’s one piece which is just a wooden frame, bordering nothing but the white wall behind it as some sort of symbolism for emptiness or simplicity.

It’s all quite fascinating and thought-provoking, and Iris doesn’t know how many minutes tick by as she admires all the gallery has to offer. Time seems non-existent, and even Louis flees her mind, as all she can think about is these artworks and the message they’re trying to get across.

She finds it similar to literature, to analysing metaphors and symbols and motifs placed throughout texts. It’s like, everyone interprets their own meaning of it, and often more than half of the things which people come up with never crossed the author’s mind or were the artist’s intention, but that’s the point. Personal judgment and perception.

Another archway leads on to an additional room, a sign outside it reading ‘Absent Presence’. At the front sits an artwork which immediately grabs her attention. Its four squares – one green, one a darker green, one light grey and one black – joined together to form a larger square. It has quite an interesting texture to it, and the squares aren’t particularly perfect. Situated below the piece is a sign containing more information on it.

“ _Manchester Art Gallery recently acquired_ _Exposed Painting Green Lake_ _, 2012, by contemporary artist Callum Innes. This new display of works from our collection takes its inspiration from this painting.”_

Beside the text is an image of _Sir Thomas Aston at the Deathbed of his Wife,_ 1623, which depicts exactly what it describes in the title.

_“It looks at how art captures a moment in time and asks how a subject can be present in an artwork, yet absent at the same time._

_Innes created this_ _Exposed Painting_ _by a process of 'unpainting': brushing off the top layer of black paint to reveal the deep green colour underneath, leaving traces of brushstrokes behind. In this way, he both removes the image and leaves its presence visible._

_The paintings in this exhibition all require a similar heightened level of looking, a searching for traces of the absent. The artists are often playing with the concept of time, adding presences from the past into scenes of the present._

_When the subject is absent, we try to find the missing presence in what remains.”_

Iris feels arms wrapped around her waist all of a sudden, and sounds a small squeal of surprise.

“Just me, babe,” Louis assures from behind, kissing the back of her head. “Mmm, what were you looking at?” he asks, pulling away.

“I don’t know, just this absence… presence… exposed painting, thing,” she mutters, spinning around to watch him as he steps forward and reads the artwork’s description. The further he goes along, the more his brow creases, like he doesn’t really get it. He’s quite cute when he’s confused, and Iris should know, since he spends most Literature lessons with that look on his face.

“C’mon, let’s go look at something else,” she suggests, tearing him away before he starts complaining about his brain hurting.

They next go to the classical art section, which is grander and more sophisticated; century old paintings encased in elaborate gold and bronze coloured frames. Louis walks with her this time as opposed to wandering off, which ends up being more of a problematic arrangement than she’d hoped.

See, Iris will try to appreciate the beauty of the paintings which would’ve spent years in the making, but behind her Louis will be pointing out butts and tits and captioning each picture with some sort of reference to modern culture.

A stone-faced man with tears in his eyes, which Louis comments “When she doesn’t like your selfie.”

A starved man with prominent bones jutting out under his skin and “Hashtag bikini body, hashtag ready for summer.”

A disturbed looking woman with dark eyes and a long face and “Oh Jesus, that woman has seen some serious shit. Free her, oh my god.”

And it’s like… Iris tries not to laugh… but.

They leave the art gallery a bit before eight and set out in search for a place to eat. There’s a Korean Barbecue place across the road which they settle on. Inside they’re served an array of spicy and salty dishes, with thinly sliced beef, small salads and rice. Louis tries to eat too quickly and complains about burning his tongue, but other than that it’s quite a pleasant dinner.

Before they know it, it’s almost ten and they’re sitting in Louis’ car (actually his Nan’s car, but still), parked outside Iris’ building.

“So that was fun,” she comments offhandedly as she reaches for her bag.

Louis hums in agreement but stops her hand, instead clasps it in his. He tugs her a little in his direction and uses his other hand to pat his thigh, gesturing for her to hop on.

“What are you…?” Iris whispers, confused, but gladly obliges because, well… Louis’ lap. She settles down and makes herself comfortable, taking note of how Louis bravely places his hands half on her hips, half on her butt, like he’s trying to get away with as much as he can, push the boundaries as far as they can go. He bites his lip as he scans her up and down, a playful, lustful look in his eyes. “Louis—“ she squeaks, but then he’s kind of already kissing her and there’s really no use fighting it, so.

Within seconds, Louis’ already prodding his tongue against the closed off point between their lips, and Iris opens her mouth for him, threads her fingers through his hair. It becomes rough and wet and breathless far quicker than ever before, and Louis hands don’t move from their spot, only grip her tighter.

He pulls away with a wet, smacking sound, breathing heavily, and there’s this look in his eyes as if he’s trying to non-verbally communicate with her, as if he’s pleading for something.

“What?” she mumbles softly, kissing the tip of his nose.

In response, he nudges his head in the direction of Iris’ flat, eyebrows raised in question. Oh.

“Do… do you want to come upstairs? Is that what you’re—?”

“God, yes, please,” he breathes, kissing her hard on the mouth. He reaches down to unbuckle his seatbelt and leans forward, keeping Iris securely in his grip as if he’s going to carry her out of the car. But she pushes him back against the seat, remembering that one very important rule she’s vowed herself to follow.

“Louis, no,” she whines, stroking his hair affectionately. “Not tonight. It’s… it’s not the right time.”

“ _Not_ _the_ _right_ _time_? Baby, I’ve been waiting—“

“I _know,_ okay? But… just, not tonight,” she repeats, swallowing thickly.

“When, then?” he demands, a little fed up with Iris’ lack of reasoning.

She takes a deep breath, looks to the ground, and says, “When you’re eighteen.”

“ _When I’m eighteen?_ Iris, you’re not going to even _be_ here when I turn eighteen. How am I gonna fuck you when—“

“When I get back, okay? I promise,” she assures him, dusting kisses all over his cheeks. But when she pulls back, the look on his face suggests he’s not entirely satisfied. “I’d feel much more comfortable and at ease if we waited,” she explains, “Please respect that.”

“Okay,” Louis mumbles, twirling a stand of her hair between his fingertips. “January it is then. Wouldn’t want to upset my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” she repeats, tilting her head to the side.

“What? Is that like, too young for you? Do you want me to call you, like, ‘my partner’, or,”

“No,” she interrupts with a smile, “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

Louis grins at her, his hands sliding down until their resting over her butt. “Yeah?” he asks lowly, lips brushing against the hinge of her jaw.

“Yeah,” she confirms, voice barely above a whisper.

And it takes them about eight tries before Iris is at the door of her building and Louis is driving off, since, you know… they just can’t seem to keep their hands off each other.


	11. Chapter 11

Iris Blackstone decided quite some time ago, that she would never, ever have kids.

Her fear of maternity began at around the age of 16, when she was doing her GCSEs. It was at a school trip to the science museum for her biology class, in which they were studying cell function and reproduction. Her class had been touring the Human Growth and Development section, and she and her friends had sort of wandered around independently, paying barely any attention to all the impromptu lessons their teacher, Mr Clarke, was trying to give them.

They stumbled upon this video being shown in a small room, which outlined the stages of pregnancy from conception to birth. They’d tuned in at a moment where it was simply showing a foetus in the womb. Pretty standard, nothing too repulsing.

But then the birthing part came, and there was blood… lots of blood, and… and screaming, and… and other gross things which Iris didn’t want to ever see again.

Her friends had all made noises of disgust but nevertheless kept watching, like when you watch something bad but for whatever reason, just can’t look away. But Iris was past being disgusted, she was pale as a sheet and speechless, wishing more than anything to just get out of there. It’s still to this day one of the most traumatic experiences of her life.

Her fear of pregnancy thrived over the next few years, and eventually expanded to simply motherhood in general. The thought of having a baby in her belly, being completely responsible for a life other than her own, her choices possibly determining the baby’s future… it’s all a bit much. Iris can barely manage her own life, and God forbid the addition of another.

And then there’s all the things she’d have to give up: alcohol, the emergency cigarette from time to time. Plus she’d have to eat healthy, as well as get plenty of sleep. It’s so much responsibility thrusted upon a single person, and Iris doesn’t want to be that person.

Of course, after pushing the baby out – an almost unbearable pain which women often get drugged up for, or just avoid altogether – there’s the actual caring for the baby; waking up in the middle of the night to feed it, being careful not to drop it. And then all the money which the child will cost (money, which she could alternatively spend on clothes and holidays and a nice house)… it’s all quite overwhelming.

So, no, Iris will _not_ procreate, and that decision is beginning to seem like the best fucking choice of her life as she watches Naomi cradle a crying Stephen in her arms, muttering soft words of comfort. He’s been wailing continuously for well over a minute, surely damaging Iris’ eardrums with the intensity of his cries. She’s suddenly so glad for the invention of condoms and other birth control methods, because she absolutely does not want to have to deal with a problem like that in the future.

Sighing, she attempts to somehow mentally block out the noise, eyes flittering around her mother’s lounge room.

It’s Christmas Eve, Louis’ birthday, and she’s been in Harrogate for a couple of hours now. She’d texted him first thing in the morning to wish him a wonderful day, but then found herself having to rush out the door in order to make it on time. Her mother’s always quite strict when it comes to events and family gatherings. If you come late without a valid reason, she will give you shit for it. It’s like being back at school again, honestly.

So she didn’t exactly get to give Louis the big, warm ‘happy birthday’ she was planning to, but she’s promised herself that she’ll call him later tonight, if anything.

“Iris?” Naomi says, gaining her attention. “Could you hold Stephen while I just duck off to the loo for a sec?”

“Oh, uh, sure,” she fumbles, not wanting to accept, but knowing it would be rude to decline.

“Thank you,” Naomi says appreciatively, reaching out to hand Stephen over to her. Iris sort of holds her arms out randomly and hopes for the best. She has no idea how to hold a baby correctly.

Fortunately, Naomi seems to sense this, and before she leaves, casually fixes up Iris’ arms so there’s one supporting his bottom, the other supporting his head. Iris feels kind of embarrassed. Some days, she can’t even adult.

“Be back in a moment,” Naomi mutters before disappearing into the hallway.

“Okay,” Iris mumbles back helplessly, looking perplexedly at this strange, tiny person who somehow ended up in her care. She feels sorry for him, to be honest.

He’s still sobbing, and Iris doesn’t really blame him. It is still quite an annoying sound though, and it’s pretty much an indication that he’s upset, so she should at least attempt to calm him down. 

“Hey, shh,” she whispers, beginning to gently rock him back and forth, the same motion she saw Naomi do earlier. It doesn’t ease the situation, only worsens it if anything. It’s official; Iris doesn’t like babies, and babies don’t like her.

She bites her lip and peers towards the archway, hoping that Naomi would hurry up. This is really not how she was planning on spending her winter break.

Naomi returns less than a minute later, muttering another thank you as she retrieves her son. Iris is relieved to say the least, and really doesn’t want to find herself stuck in a similar situation again. To ensure that that’s not the case, she rises from her place on the sofa and opts to instead check up on her mother in the kitchen.

She passes through the archway and into the large, tiled kitchen, noticing her mother bent over the benchtop, her steady posture suggesting she’s deeply concentrated and hard at work. She’s so small and mousy, barely able to reach the overhead cabinets. Iris is certain she gets her slender figure from her.

“Hey mum,” Iris greets, walking up to the benchtop. Spread out before her is a chopping board holding an array of winter vegetables, and a whole raw chicken which has been basted with herbs. She looks deeply focused, hands calloused as she crushes a clove of garlic with the flat side of her knife.

“Oh, Iris,” she says, emptying her hands and turning to face her daughter. She pulls her into a quick hug and says, “Barely even gotten a chance to talk to you, I’ve been in here all day.”

“Yeah, you look busy,” Iris agrees, referring to the mound of ingredients on the bench which still need to be prepped. “How can I help?”

“There’s some carrots which need to be peeled and chopped into juliennes,” she instructs, “and some green beans which need to be quartered.”

Iris nods and gathers a peeler and knife from the drawer, as well as a chopping board from the cupboard. She peels carrots at the sink while her mother dices onions, and there’s a comforting, relaxing silence which reminds Iris of how much she likes being back home.

“So, how have you been?” he mother asks.

“I’m fine. I’ve told you that,” Iris replies simply, because there isn’t all that much which she doesn’t share with her mother during their weekly phone calls. Except Louis, but that’s for the better.

“And how’s your job at that new school?” she questions, the sound of sharp knife hitting board echoing through the room.

“Mum, I’ve spoken to you about it on the phone already,” she huffs, pausing to give her a pointed look. “ _It’s fine._ ”

“What about that boyfriend of yours?” she asks, and Iris’ hands actually stop mid-peel, her eyes shooting up. _Calm down, there’s no possible way she could know about Louis,_ she assures herself.

“What boyfriend?” she asks, coughing to excuse how broken her voice sounds.

“That boyfriend you have,” her mother stresses, determined not to let Iris think she’s speaking nonsense. “Oh, what’s his name? Henry? Harry?”

“Oh. Him,” Iris mutters, her shoulders relaxing. “Yeah, that didn’t work out in the end.”

“He sounded lovely when you described him on the phone,” she comments.

“Yeah, he was…” Iris agrees, taking a moment to stop and reflect. Harry truly was such a lovely person. And he was a good boyfriend, too. He used to take her out to so many places, used to treat her so well. But for almost the entire course of the relationship, although she did very much like Harry, she just couldn’t stop thinking about Louis, couldn’t stop reminding herself daily of how cute he was and how much she wanted him.

Two nights before their break up, when Harry was suspended above her, breathing jaggedly as he pounded into her, she’d mentally replaced Harry with Louis instead, imagined it was _his_ hands wrapped tightly around her waist, _his_ hair that was all sweaty and mussed up, _his_ loud moans which were filling the room. It had left her feeling insanely guilty, even more so when she realised that she had to break up with this poor, innocent and lovely guy.

And then when she did break up with him, when she admitted the truth, he didn’t yell or slam doors, but was calm and understanding and willing to listen. She really didn't deserve that, didn't deserve him. She hopes that he's happy now, wherever he is.

"...But?" her mother asks, pulling her out of her trance.

"I guess we just moved too quickly, didn't really think to slow it down or take our time, you know?" Iris responds, and it is partially true. One of the reasons why they didn't last was because they rushed into everything to quickly. Again, another mistake on Iris' part. Instead of taking it slow, allowing herself to develop proper, genuine, explicit feelings for Harry, she'd treated it like this race for a distraction - like, if they didn't do this or do that right now, her mind would wander off to Louis again.

"Well, that's no reason to break up with someone. You could've made that work," her mother scoffs.

“Mum,” she whines, growing agitated at the fact that she can’t just go ahead and admit the major reason why she’s no longer with Harry, can’t say that she broke up with him to be with one of her students, whom she possess stronger, more intense feelings for. She can’t elaborate on why her life is so great at the moment, can’t describe the date Louis took her out on last week, can’t mention that today’s her boyfriend’s birthday, list all the gifts she’s gotten him. It’s frustrating, not being able to share the most exciting and amazing thing which has happened to her all year. Instead, all she can say is a vague and empty ‘I’m fine’.

“What? You’re always throwing the good ones away,” her mother complains, and Iris heaves a deep sigh. Ever since Marcus got married at the young age of twenty-three and bought his first child into the world only two years later, her mother’s been expecting her to follow in his footsteps, to quickly settle down and start a family. Iris isn’t really about that life. She’s fine living in her small inner city flat with Florence, surrounded by noise and nightlife, okay with classifying a good night out as anything involving tequila shots, happy to slip in and out of relationships, not let herself become too attached.

Kids are a definite no, and there’s always time for marriage in the future, if she ever wanted to, so why would she settle down now?

“Remember Anthony?” her mother questions, reminding her of the last proper boyfriend she’d had before Harry, the one she’d been serious enough about to take him to meet her parents.

She started dating Anthony in her final year of uni, when things had begun to somewhat calm down. He was starting his law degree and she was studying to become a teacher, and for a while things were nice. He was funny and playful and interesting… to begin with at least.

Months into the relationship, however, about a week after Anthony moved into Iris’ flat, he began to slowly evolve into this boring, insipid, monotonous creature who never wanted to do anything anymore. She’d come home from her teaching rounds and he’d grunt out a ‘hello’, if she was lucky. She’d plonk next to him, rest her head on his shoulder and ask about his day, and the only response she’d get would be a mumbled ‘it was fine’ while his gaze would remain glued to the TV or his coursework. Outings were scarce, and when they did occur it would often just be dinner at the Pizza Express two blocks down because the fridge was empty, or a night at the carvery with Anthony’s mates, in which Iris would often be utterly ignored.

He’d leave messes around the flat, complain when she asked him to clean them up. He barely contributed to any of the housework, expected her to take care of all matters of that kind, and even so he didn’t reward or thank her in any way. All she got was a half-arsed fuck twice a week, and three quarters of the time she wouldn’t even come anywhere close to orgasming.

Iris knows that the romantic, often giddy feeling present at the beginning of relationships inevitably fizzles away at some point in time, that nothing lasts forever. But they were honestly resembling two quarrelling forty year olds whose marriage was on its final days, when in actual fact they were both only twenty-two, and had only been involved for a year. It’s like, Anthony got too comfortable, thought that once he’d moved in he could simply twist open a beer and hike his feet up, thought that from hereafter, he’d no longer need to put in any effort.

Iris contemplated breaking up with him on many occasions, but circled in her calendar in black ink was a weekend in which the couple would be travelling to Harrogate so Anthony could meet Iris’ parents, an event which was organised a month in advance, And it would just be embarrassing, really, if Iris called a few days before to announce that the plans were cancelled, especially when she has a mother like hers.

So they went, and it was one of the most uncomfortable weekends of her life. The literal _second_ that Anthony mentioned he was studying to become a lawyer, her mother’s interest had been piqued to no return. Anthony could’ve said _anything_ after that, could’ve admitted that he’d been involved in the mafia or sold drugs for a living, and Iris’ mum would’ve still remained convinced he’d be the best match for her daughter.

Her father hadn’t liked him, thankfully; said he was the one of the dullest people he’d ever come across. Iris broke up with him a week later, leaving her mother furious and sparking a debate which still continues today – Iris always breaks up with the ‘good’ ones.

“Oh my god, shut up about Anthony already. That was last year,” Iris complains as she carries all her peeled carrots over to the chopping board and begins to slice them.

“So you haven’t found anybody new?” her mother asks inquisitively with a hopeful glance.

“Nope,” Iris lies, pursing her lips into a straight line to fight off any sudden grins or giggles which will inescapably come when Louis’ on her mind.

“Oh, shivers! Cut meself,” her mother exclaims abruptly, nursing her sore finger.

“You alright?” Iris asks mindlessly, continuing to slice carrots into matchsticks.

“Yeah, just going to go fetch a bandage,” she mutters before wandering off to the first aid cabinet. Iris moves on to the beans, chopping them in half, then in half again.

She returns about a minute later, mumbling “Gosh, I wish Naomi was doing the cooking. She's the actual chef, I'm just a caterer," as she cuts into a courgette with extra force.

“Naomi has to look after Stephen,” Iris reminds her.

“Yes, but I could look after him. Or better yet you could. Then it would just be Naomi and I in the kitchen,” her mother trails off hopefully, like that’s the ideal situation.

“Are you… are you insulting my chopping skills?” Iris splutters, mildly offended by her mother’s lack of trust of her in the kitchen.

“Look,” she says, picking something up off Iris’ chopping board. “They’re all wonky and inconsistent in size. They won’t cook evenly now.”

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Iris assures her. “And, no, I’m not going out there to look after Stephen.”  

“Why not? He is your nephew after all.”

“ _Why not_?” Iris repeats, appalled that after twenty-four years of knowing her, her mother still can’t understand that Iris plus children is not a happy equation. “Because I’m horrible with kids. I can’t even hold a baby without it nearly falling to the ground. If you leave me in charge of him he’ll have dropped to the floor in seconds, and would be crying even more than he is now,” Iris finishes, gazing out the kitchen window which offers a view of the back garden.

Marcus and her father are still out there playing football, passing back and forth as they catch up on what’s been happening in each other’s lives since Marcus last came up for a visit. The only difference is that Naomi’s joined them, snuggling Stephen close to her chest as she points to Marcus, saying ‘Look, there’s daddy!’. His distant cries can still be heard, but the sight of his father seems to be calming him down.

“Oh, stop it,” her mother scolds, “You can look after babies just fine.”

“I’m not having kids, if that’s what this is leading up to,” Iris promises, not wishing to have that pointless argument again.

“You’ll change your mind, Iris,” she warns in a sort of condescending, mother-knows-best tone. “Just wait.”

“No I won’t, mother” Iris hums, all mock sweetness.

She loves her mum, she really does. Well, when she tries to meddle with her boyfriends and force her into life choices which would leave her miserable, she doesn’t. But, still.

* * *

 

Iris’ parents are divorced, but they don’t absolutely despise of each other. What lead them to their separation was the simple fact that they didn’t love each other anymore, not that they hated each other’s guts. So granted, they can tolerate each other at family events like these, and still keep in good touch despite the fact that they’re no longer married.

It does make dinner a bit awkward, however, and when her phone rings halfway through the meal, she jumps at the opportunity to be excused.

“Who’d be calling at seven o’clock on Christmas Eve?” her mother complains, almost offended by the rude interruption.

Louis, that’s who. But she can’t tell her family that. Nor can she say it’s work calling, because that would be implausible. And pretending that it’s Zara or Niall would not be a worthy enough excuse to leave the table.

“Nobody,” Iris says quickly, sliding out of her seat and nearly tripping herself in the process. “I’ve just— I’ve got to take this. Really important… thing. Need to… yeah.”

Before her family can question her, she’s out of there, dashing up the stairs and into her old bedroom, a Kurt Cobain poster watching down on her as she taps ‘accept’.

“Hey Louis,” she greets as she collapses down onto her bed, a little out of breath from her swift getaway.

“Hey babe,” his voice cracks through the speaker, and it’s just… it’s just so nice to be able to hear him again. Her body sort of shrivels up in happiness at the way the pet name rolls of his tongue, low and effortless. It’s really, really attractive.

“Happy birthday,” she replies, unable to keep her mouth straight as she utters the words. “You’re eighteen.”

“I _am_ eighteen,” Louis agrees, voice warm and happy and relaxed and just…

“Do you feel any different?” she asks.

“Not at all,” he admits with a chuckle, and she can’t help but laugh back. Not because anything’s funny, but because she’s just so happy to be talking to him right now.

“Hey, you can legally drink and buy cigarettes and vote­—“

“­—and date you,” he finishes, and she can almost hear the stupid, dumb smirk on his face.

She sighs, the reality kicking in as she realises the falsehood of that statement. “Louis,” she whispers, voice turned serious.

“Yeah?” he mumbles, still overjoyed.

“I did some research the other day,” she begins to explain, “and, um… no, it’s still illegal.”

“What?” Louis says from the other end of the line, sounding genuinely upset and making Iris wince.

“It’s like, if I wasn’t your teacher it would be okay, but, well, since I am, It’s like I’m sort of a figure you trust and by dating you I could be violating that trust, and basically it’s some kind of sexual harassment. I’m sure you feel very harassed.”

“So, do we still have to be as careful as before?” Louis asks.

“Pretty much, I mean, if we were caught I’d still lose my job and be charged with something, but the consequences would be a bit less severe, so.”

“Does… does this mean that our plans for next week are cancelled?” he asks, voice small, as if he’s scared to know the answer.

“Of course not,” she assures him, wondering why he’d even ask. Louis heaves the biggest sigh of relief, and Iris’ heart flutters because it’s just so… so blatant. She bites down on her lip playfully, then says, “So I’m guessing you’re looking forward to it?”

“It’s all I can think about,” he answers, voice raw, and he’s so sincere and outspoken that Iris wouldn’t be surprised if next week’s plans _have_ been all that’s on his mind, literally. His honesty sends tingles down her spine and wipes the smile off her face. Her breath hitches at the sheer need and desire which drips from his words, enough for a yearning to be felt between her thighs, making her cross her legs.

“Louis,” she croaks, voice suddenly so incredibly broken.

“Yeah,” he practically moans back, which doesn’t help in the slightest.

“Are… are you a virgin?”

“No. I mean, yeah. Kind of. Well, like, I’ve done… stuff. Just not, you know… _actual_ sex. Like, I’ve received, uh… a blowjob before, but—“

He’s rambling now, stumbling over his words, and Iris doesn’t think he even realises it. She cups a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle, loving his jumpiness. It’s as if he’s trying to sound all mature and experienced about the topic to impress her, knowing that she’s far older than him, but all he’s achieving is making himself sound utterly adorable.

“Good thing that I booked us a nice hotel, then. Since it’s you’re first time and all,” she comments, interrupting his meandering speech.

“Wait, you booked us a hotel?” Louis asks in disbelief, excitement evident in his tone.

“Yeah. It was supposed to be a surprise, but then I remembered that was had to sort of, you know… arrange it.”

“Yeah, okay… I’ll call Stan in a couple of days and ask him to cover for me. We’ll pretend that I’m sleeping over at his, yeah?”

“That sounds nice,” Iris mutters, rolling onto her stomach. A lull takes place in the conversation, in which all she can hear is the soft rhythm of Louis’ breathing. It’s comforting enough to kindle a warmth in her body, to allow for her eyelids to droop down.

“I wish you were here,” he eventually mumbles into the phone, voice low.

“I wish _you_ were _here_ ,” she replies, fantasizing over the idea of Louis travelling to Harrogate with her, being able to show him off to her parents, boast about how happy she is.

Louis hums contently, and she has about fifteen more seconds to revel in this lovely warmth she’s receiving before Marcus is busting through the door, demanding her attention.

“Your food’s gone cold, and mum’s upset,” he announces, offering only the smallest glance in her direction.

“I’ll come down in a sec,” she promises, briefly pulling the phone away from her ear.

“No, come now,” he persists, staring at her with impatience.

She rolls her eyes from annoyance, resentful that she has to cut short her conversation with her boyfriend, whom she has limited time with already, but nevertheless, says her goodbyes.

“Okay, um, I’m terribly sorry but I’ve got to go now,” she mutters quickly into the phone, pretending that the call she’d just been engaged in had a more professional theme than it did. “I’ll speak to you soon. Bye.”

She ends the call before Louis can reply, which is probably for the better.

“Who were you even talking to?” her brother questions, appearing vaguely confused.

“Nobody,” she dismisses, far too quickly to be suave, and her aura shifts from ‘calm and relaxed’ to ‘definitely hiding something’ within a matter of seconds.  

But she can’t really bring herself to care all that much, because as cheesy as it sounds, her chat with Louis may have just made her night.

* * *

 

“So you still haven’t told me,” Marcus begins as he stops the football bouncing towards him with his foot, arms spread out for stability, “Who the fuck you were talking to the other day,”

They’re at the local park, having to relocate to a larger playing field after the ball nearly shattered the neighbour’s bedroom window back home. It’s December 29th, a couple of days after Christmas (her presents were as equally disappointing as the last year of adulthood), and it’s probably the warmest it’s been all month, hence the reason they’re out of the house. They’ve spent the afternoon aimlessly kicking a ball back and forth, running the length of the field and attempting to steal it off each other, the houses of Harrogate as their backdrop.

“I haven’t told you,” Iris says, shuffling to get into position as Marcus kicks the ball a little to the left. “Because it’s none of your fucking business.”

“Yeah, okay. Except, you kind of nearly over tripped your chair, you were that excited to answer your phone, and like, it’s making me curious.”

Iris merely sighs and purses her lips as she passes the ball back, contemplating whether or not it would be safe to let her older brother in on her little secret. She has known him her whole life, and can find trust in him like nobody else, with the exception of Zara, maybe. But this is actually one of the most controversial secrets she’s ever kept, and she doesn’t want to risk it when Marcus could quite easily not react positively to the information.

“Alright, I’ll tell you,” she surrenders, finding it impossible not to yield at all the pleading glances her brother gives her. “But you can’t tell mum, or dad, or Abby, or even Naomi, since she seems to have become so close to mum lately,” Iris warns, looking at him with caution.

“Fair enough,” Marcus agrees, kicking the ball back.

Iris traps it at her feet and huffs, knowing this is not a conversation which should be treated casually. She bends down to pick up the ball, announcing that the game is over, and plonks herself down onto the lush grass, still damp with dew following yesterday’s rain. Marcus joins her, sitting cross legged and rubbing heat into his toes as he awaits Iris’ response.

“Okay, so… the thing is, I was… I was talking to this guy. And, well, he’s pretty much my boyfriend at the moment,” Iris begins, unable to focus her eyes anywhere but the tufts of grass she’s picking at.

Marcus nods his head, showing his understanding. “…And?”

“And, he’s uh… he’s younger than me,” she admits, tugging at grass strands with extra force.

“Well, so what?” Marcus asks amusedly, wondering what’s so terrible about that.

“A lot younger,” Iris clarifies, and her brother’s face drops as he catches on.

“How young are we talking about, Iris?” he says, voice wavering a little as he begins to worry for his sister.

“Eighteen,” Iris answers, finding that voicing the word is just a pang to the chest; a reminder of the vast age gap between them.

“Oh,” he says, easing the look of concern on his face. “Well, that’s legal then, innit?”

“Yeah, I guess, but… it’s still a big age difference. I mean, I’m going to be twenty five in March. We’re like, seven and a half years apart.”

“True. And like, no doubt that there’s a difference in maturity as well. You’ve already experienced adulthood and university, and he’s basically just starting out. Like, would he be first year uni, or… wait, fuck did you say again? Eighteen? That would mean— _Oh_ _fuck_ _no_. Don’t tell me he’s—”

All Iris can reply with is this choked off mix between a keen and a laugh, which prompts Marcus to hold fear for her mental state.

“ _No no no no no. Iris._ Please tell me you’re not dating a student,” he pleads, “That’s… that’s so morally wrong, and—”

“For fuck’s sake, _I know._ Do you think I haven’t thought about that already?” she complains, growing more exhausted at that fact each time she’s reminded of it.

“And you’re probably breaking, what, ten school rules in the process—”

“ _I get it_.”

“You’ll lose your job if you’re caught, then maybe even won’t be able to find work as a teacher again—”

“Oh my god, could you please let me speak for a minute, at least?” she scoffs, loud enough to silence his harsh criticism of her choices.

Marcus looks taken aback for a second, his eyes remaining narrowed and offering a disgusted look. But then he recollects himself with an awkward cough and says, “Right. Yeah. Sorry.”

“Thank you,” Iris huffs, appreciating the silence very much. Now granted the chance to explain herself, she gathers her thoughts and on what exactly she should say, how exactly she should convince Marcus to support her through this burden. “Okay, so, we were sort of friends before we got together, and then we _got together_ , and… I don’t know what to say except that I really, _really_ like him. And he likes me, I hope. And I don’t pressure him into doing anything, we always take precautions to ensure we don’t get caught, and his age isn’t even a factor anymore. I sometimes forget that he’s only eighteen, forget that he’s a student. To me, he’s just… Louis.”

Iris can only look forward at the expansive football pitch in front of her, can’t bring herself to turn her head and meet her brother’s eyes. It’s too personal, this topic, and she’s afraid that if she keeps going, she’ll end up spilling every thought she’s had about Louis and her feelings towards him; late at night when she’s tucking herself into bed, observing as the ceiling fan spins in sad, slow circles, or after class when she’s watching him leave through the doorway, the little smirk he’ll give her through the window when he notices she’s still staring.

“Wow,” is what Marcus responds with, processing those words. “It… it sounds like you really do like him.”

“I do,” Iris reiterates, mindlessly tossing the ball up into the air to small, manageable heights. The movement induces her to think of Louis and the way he looks in his oversized football kit, the memory of him jogging up and down the pitch at a steady pace, how it’s only been five days since she last touched his body and yet she’s craving physical contact with him more than ever. So she stops, rolls the ball a good distance away with the heel of her palm. Even something as measly as a football can leave her unsettled and fidgety.

“I’m still gonna worry about you, though,” Marcus objects, clearly not confident that Iris has this under control.

“Please don’t. It’s fine,” she mutters, dreading the thought of daily phone calls from her brother.

“And I still think that what you’re doing is completely wrong,” he adds sternly

“Hey, you were the one who asked! I had a gut feeling you’d act like this, which is exactly why I was so hesitant to tell you,” she spits back.

“ _But,_ ” he continues loudly, conveying that he’s not quite done. “You’re twenty four and an adult, and I suppose I can’t really tell you what to do, so.”

“Wait, are you serious?” Iris splutters with wide eyes, shocked that he hadn’t given her an excessively long lecture or called their mother as soon as she broke the news, but actually, somewhat, accepted it.

“Yeah, well, I mean—”

“Oh my god,” she gushes, immediately lurching out towards her brother to engulf him in a tight hug. “Thank you.”

“I’m still going to worry about you a lot, though. Like, every day,” he reminds her, hugging her back with an equal level of tightness.

“You don’t have to,” she assures him feebly as she pulls back. “Honestly, I have it all under control, there’s nothing to worry about,” she attempts to persuade him, wondering if those words are true herself.

That night, she checks her Facebook. She barely logs on anymore these days, since her newsfeed has become a minefield of engagement and pregnancy announcements, but before she left Manchester she swears she heard Louis mention something about a birthday party he’s hosting, and she’s a little hopeful that he might’ve posted some pictures.

She types ‘Louis Tomlinson’ into the search bar, and he pops up as the first result. His profile picture is of him and his friend Adam, standing together in their football kits, holding what looks to be the premiership from last season. He looks really, really happy.

Fortunately, his privacy settings have hardly been touched, and she’s able to view his entire timeline without having to add him as a friend. As she expected, there’s a new album titled ‘My eighteenth !!!’, and Iris’ hand moves to click on it at a frightening speed.

The photos are all pretty much the same; people with their arms around each other, some grasping a can of beer in one hand, the background often being a dark room with streaks of light and human figures peeking through. Louis seems to always be doing this pose where he’s pointing upwards (what is he even pointing at?) or pulling a ridiculous face. He’s holding a can of something alcoholic, and he looks so bubbly and lively and Iris would very much like to get drunk with him and do silly things together in a bedroom.

Along with his mates, pooling around him are girls with contoured faces, crop tops or bralets. Louis is gorgeous enough to have any one of them, and undoubtedly a few of them are lusting after him. But he chose her; Iris, with her Peter Pan collars, short hair and clumsy feet.

She feels so warm, so giddy. Louis’ over 50 miles away and all she’s doing is browsing pictures of him on her laptop, and yet her cheeks are pink and she’s trying to force back a smile.

He’s such a bastard, making her feel like she’s the only person in this world who matters. Such, _such_ a bastard.

* * *

 

“Hey Iris,” says a voice, and she looks up from her phone screen only to discover it’s her father, popping into the kitchen to grab another beer.

“Hey,” she greets back, pulling her phone off charge and pocketing it.

“Did you watch the game against Bournemouth the other week?” he asks, twisting off the cap. “Absolutely shocking.”

“Mmm, yeah I know,” she mumbles, readjusting her skirt. It’s New Year’s Eve, and she’s lost track of how many more minutes or seconds it is until the big moment. All she knows is that another year’s come and gone, and it’s just getting ridiculous now, how quickly this day arrives. Iris swears it was September yesterday.

Her father sits himself at the breakfast table, sighing from exhaustion, and she picks at her nails as she listens in to all the conversations taking place in the lounge room, the rest of the family gathered around the television, watching the New Year’s special broadcast.

“Hey, I don’t think we’ve had a proper chat since you got here,” her father perks up out of the blue, folding his hands together.

“What do you mean?” Iris asks, laughing slightly from confusion.

“You seem happier since the last time you came to visit,” he observes, looking at her intently, like he’s picking apart everything which she’s so desperately tried to hide this past week. Like he _knows._

“Yeah, well, the last time I visited was when Nan died, and I think it was perfectly reasonable of me to not be at my happiest then,” she objects.

“You know what I mean. You just… you’re happy. And it’s good,” he replies simply, never really being a man of much philosophy and wisdom.

“Cheers, dad,” she smiles back, finding humour in how uncomfortable serious conversations make him.

He raises his beer bottle as a salute, giving her his signature mischievous smile. Iris nearly replies, but there’s a vibration in her pocket which halts her.

“Hang on, just got to take this,” she mutters swiftly as she reads the caller ID. Her father seems indifferent as she casually slips out the back kitchen door which leads to the deck, into the harsh wind which prompts her to hug her jumper closer. She can hear the distant sounds of traffic, see the light from streetlamps glitter off the surrounding roofs. It’s New Year’s Eve.

“Ayyyy,” Louis cheers, his voice nothing but a small, cracked noise in her ear. “I called you right in time.”

“What do you mean?” she wonders, leaning up against the railing.

The question doesn’t need to be answered, because suddenly there’s a booming sound of fireworks from somewhere on the other side of town and an eruption of noise from the house; a muffled query of “Hey, where’s Iris?”. She doesn’t care.

“Happy new year, babe,” Louis says, and she can hear the feint sounds of his family’s celebrations in the background.

“Happy new year, Lou,” she responds, attempting with all her might not to start shivering.

“I’m sending you a virtual kiss right now, since I can’t be there to do it myself,” he explains, sounding quite pleased with himself.

“Your kiss has been received,” she replies dutifully.

He hums in delight and says, “I’m glad,” and Iris could just about melt right about now. “Anyway, I’ve got to go now, so I’ll see you tomorrow… I guess.”

“Bye Louis,” she says quickly, and then the line goes dead.

Returning to the lounge, she catches her family at that one special time on New Years; when the excitement of the fireworks has subsided and all the hugs and kisses have been exchanged. When everyone watches the sparkling lights shoot off Big Ben and just stops, and thinks about… stuff.

It’s another year down, another meaningless holiday celebrated. She recalls all her previous New Year’s Eves; one spent at a party in Niall’s flat, drunk and careless and willing to kiss the first guy to walk past. Another spent with Anthony, curled up in their bed with glasses of champagne, both bored out of her minds. The year when she and Zara travelled to London and stood at the Southbank amongst a crowd of people.

Her father’s right.

She thinks this year might be the happiest. 


	12. Chapter 12

Not even fifteen minutes after she's arrived home, made a start on unpacking her night bag and kicked her feet up on the armrest of the couch, her phone’s buzzing. Fucking brilliant.

It’s probably Niall, wishing her a late happy new year because at the time that the clock struck twelve he’d been a bit preoccupied with downing shots of tequila or puking into a toilet bowl. Or maybe Zara, dutifully informing her of this year’s resolutions which are destined to fail before the end of the week. Or her mother, asking if she arrived home safely. Or—

**I’m outside. Let me up!! ;)**

Stupid son of a bitch, choosing to creep up on her at the most inconvenient times, rocking up to her flat without any invitation. She can’t believe that she calls this boy her boyfriend.

That doesn’t mean that she won’t let him up, though. In fact, she’s power walking her way over there right now, her pace soon quickening into a jog. God, she needs to see him.

Out the door of her flat, down the stairwell, past the studio downstairs whose owner plays obnoxiously loud Spanish music on a frequent basis, open the front door, and… there he is. Rugged up in a jumper, coat, beanie, and a scarf with snowflake patterns stitched into the ends, his cheeks dusted with pink. So, so adorable… precious little thing, too good for this world.

“Oh!” she all but squeaks – quite humiliatingly – as Louis’ arms reach out to engulf her small frame, trapping her until all that surrounds her is this soft, malleable body and the scent of Lynx. Her vision turns black as she’s driven further into Louis’ chest, her only sight being the dark material of his woollen jumper. If she’s being honest, she can barely breathe, and the prospect of death by suffocation has never been more imminent. She doesn’t mind, she’s decided. If this is the way she goes, then so be it.

Her arms fly out to hug him in a similarly tight fashion, landing at the taut muscles of his lower back. She can trace the knobs of his spine, hear the rhythm of his steady breathing up close, and not just through cracked phone line reception. 

“Missed you,” he practically wheezes, the restriction in his voice confirming that he too is struggling for breath at the tightness of the embrace. It’s been a week.

“I missed you too,” she assures him into his chest, drinking up the knowledge that he’s here and she’s touching him and he smells really, _really_ good. Wondering when exactly their reunions following short, feeble holidays became so emotional, she opts to put them both out of their misery and allow oxygen to travel through their lungs freely, stepping out of the intimate embrace.

When she catches sight of him again, she notices that a broad smile has graced his lips, reaching the corners of his eyes, and just… why does he have to act like this all the time? Like she’s the forefront of his universe, a bright star amongst a shadowy, barren wasteland. Iris would appreciate it very much if he toned down on the, shall we say, infatuation? Yes, very much.

To rescue him from whatever ridiculous trance he’s lost in, she taps the tip of his nose lightly as if he were a kitten, and giggles at his dazed reaction.

He beams at her one last time then looks to the ground, one hand blindly extending out to grasp the doorframe and maintain his balance. _Stop being a babe,_ she mentally orders him, finding his loose posture and the way his fringe falls over his face and his goddamn _ankles,_ of all things, to be quite irresistible.

“So, the um… presents?” he asks hopefully as he peers up at her, mouth twitching from smug amusement.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” she says, backing up a few paces, trying to forget that she’d been optimistically anticipating that the next few words to leave Louis’ mouth be some attempt at sexual innuendo or a reference to their booked hotel room. Despite innocent smiles and affectionate gestures, the tension between them is high, ever increasing as Louis follows her retreating figure with eagerness and determination, hands gripping her elbows to retain their proximity. “There just, uh,” she begins, suddenly lost for breath as Louis begins to crowd in, the expression on his face practically saying ‘you’d very much like to kiss me right now, wouldn’t you?’. “Upstairs,” she finishes with a sigh, “Your presents are upstairs.”

Iris proceeds up the stairwell, Louis’ lingering presence trailing close behind. His hand finds her waist at one point, guiding her along, and it seems as if her senses have heightened because the touch of his fingers feels like tiny electrical jolts piercing through her skin. It really doesn’t help.

They arrive at the flat side by side, and Iris conducts a quick scan of the place from the doorway, trying to remember where she hid the gifts, while Louis unravels his scarf and removes his beanie, combing a hand through his hair. “Erm, just wait out here for a sec,” Iris instructs him, making her way towards her bedroom.

Closing the door behind her, she approaches her closet and as she suspected, at the bottom sits two presents nestled amongst empty shoe boxes and more unidentifiable clutter. She kneels down and pushes her way through the mess, hearing vague sounds of footsteps in the lounge which suggest that Louis’ gone for a bit of a wander. “Sorry, I uh, didn’t really have time to get organised,” she apologises, raising her voice so he can hear her through the walls. “I only got back less than an hour ago.”

“It’s okay,” she hears Louis reply, then takes a steadying breath.

When she returns to the lounge she discovers Louis propped on the couch, gently stroking a purring Florence in his lap. She’s convinced that her cat is fonder of her boyfriend than of her actual owner. It’s quite offensive, actually. Not just Florence’s disloyalty, but the fact that Louis is so naturally liked by everybody, can liven up any room.

“Happy late birthday,” she says, shoving his presents into his chest unannounced. In the process, it surprises Louis and alarms Florence, which is a good form of revenge, she thinks. Her cat scampers out of Louis’ lap, jumping off the ledge of the couch, and Louis spares a moment to frown at her unappreciatively before reaching for the first gift.

This one’s hidden in a simple shopping bag because it would be too difficult to wrap, so Louis pulls it out right away.

“Oh my god, I actually wanted this,” he gushes elatedly, already beginning to detach the glossy, brand new football from its cardboard casing. “The one I use for practice at home is starting to fall apart, so, thank you,” he says, grinning as he stands up to place a short kiss on her cheek.

“I’m glad you like it,” she responds, joining him when he reclaims his spot on the couch. He leans over to kiss her softly again – this time on the mouth – and then proceeds to his next present with even more enthusiasm.

This one’s been wrapped in blue striped paper, and contains the gift which Iris has been most excited about giving. Louis’ nimble fingers work at the paper, ripping and tearing until enough has been revealed, and—

“Holy fuck, are you serious?” he near shouts, and Iris is quite proud of herself for achieving such a lively reaction. She rests her chin in her palms and smiles at him lovingly, watching as he rids the gift of the final few traces of packaging and lifts it for inspection.

It’s The Killers latest album, autographed by all the band’s members and complete with a birthday message from Brandon Flowers himself. She didn’t think it would be enough, wouldn’t remotely compare to all the things Louis’ done for her these past four months; made her transition into a new job easier knowing she’s got a friend by her side, made her feel safe and warm and happy during their cuddles, kissed her with the most care and appreciation, took her out on one unforgettable date. She’d offer him the moon if she had the ability, present him with the finest gold if she were rich enough.

This gift didn’t seem anywhere near sufficient, but the expression on Louis’ face is telling her otherwise, is sparking a warmth down to the very depths of her bones. She did well, and she’s delighted with herself.

“ _Signed._ How’d you even get it signed?” Louis mutters in disbelief, tracing his fingertips over the black marker ink.

“Niall made it happen backstage at their concert last month,” she explains, shrugging like it’s nothing.

“Hey, I wanted to go to that show, but… I’m broke,” Louis pouts.

“I know,” Iris laughs, placing a hand on his cheek. “That’s why I got it for you.”

He grins at her appreciatively then says “Thank you, baby,” kissing her briefly before placing the album on the coffee table, his arms then returning to scoop her up from underneath.

Suddenly in Louis’ grasp, Iris squeaks – actually squeaks – from surprise, but is relieved when Louis only places her in his lap, his hands resting on her hips. She loves this; loves feeling Louis beneath her, being entirely wrapped up in his strong arms, pressed into his chest. She giggles as he begins to kiss her repeatedly, each time parting with a wet, smacking sound. She’ll spoil him with presents on a frequent basis, if this is the way he’s going to react.

A minute later and they’ve settled down, Iris still sitting in Louis’ lap, Louis’ fingers winding aimlessly through her hair as they sit in a comfortable silence.

“I don’t think you’ve met Niall,” Iris remarks, her mind wondering back to the person who helped assemble Louis’ birthday gift. “He’s a sound engineer. I think you’ll like him.”

Louis only manages a weak smile, still entranced by Iris’ soft curls, how effortlessly they can spring back into shape. Iris allows him to continue, actually loves the feel of Louis’ palm on her cheek.

It’s moments like this that she truly enjoys, when they’re barely doing anything yet they’re still content to the fullest, happy to just be spending time together. This whole ‘illegal relationship’ thing has really helped her appreciate the little things, the stuff that she took for granted before she was put under such harsh restrictions.

Louis clears his throat, snapping her out of her reverie. He’s scanning her up and down, eyes roaming over her chest. It’s not the first time he’s done this, but it manages to subconsciously draw Iris closer, evokes her to lean in until the tip of Louis’ nose brushes against hers.

“So, what night’s the hotel booked again?” he asks, simultaneously slipping his hands down to cover her butt. And there’s that tension again – the one which has Iris weak at the knees and breathless. Has her heart turning in her chest and sweat lining her palms. Has her full to the brim with suspense and anticipation.

Iris ruins it by snorting; loud and obnoxious snorting from the fact that Louis can’t even remember the day of the event he’s expressed so much excitement for previously. It’s actually a bit concerning, that he feels the need to pose this question, because isn’t he organising those arrangements with Stan, sorting out his alibi if his mother were to ever become suspicious? He should at least know the date.

“It’s next Thursday,” she informs the curious Louis she has peering up at her. “You should know that already.”

He breaks, dropping the whole ‘innocent and inquisitive’ act with a shrug, shamelessly saying “Yeah, I did. I just wanted to talk about it.”

Iris thinks too far into that statement, ponders the thought that Thursday’s plans might be all Louis’ had on his mind these past few days, and can’t deal with it. It’s… it’s not possible for somebody to want someone that much, to be this restless and eager about sex. But no; there Louis is, with his bright eyes and his subtle movements which force their bodies closer together and his wandering gaze which seems to situate itself everywhere but her eyes. His fingers splay wider and the point his gripping her, and Iris just… just can’t believe it, can’t fathom that Louis could want her so badly. She offers him a peculiar look, twisting her mouth in confusion.

“What?” Louis asks calmly, one hand reaching up to slip strands of hair behind her ear.

“You’re really excited for this, aren’t you?” she accuses him, tilting her head to the side.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he objects with ease, and she admires the lack of hesitation in his words, how honest and direct he is. Iris is… Iris is trying to keep things in perspective here, is trying not to let herself get too carried away, forget what’s at stake. But it doesn’t help that Louis’ practically imposing her to revaluate her priorities, to view things from a simpler outlook. “Wouldn’t it be concerning if I _wasn’t_ excited to fuck my girlfriend for the first time?”

Iris laughs at how the words sound out loud, at how true they are. He’s right. He’s _so_ right. This is a truly special experience that the two will be sharing together, and Iris shouldn’t allow herself to be weighed down by feeble doubts and uncalled for rationality.

Her response to Louis’ question is a kiss, which in turn surprises him enough for a strangled whine to escape his lips, but it’s worth it.

He melts into it, as usual, and when they pull back with reddened lips and slight lack of breath, Iris feels liquid and warm, similar to the effect of a couple glasses of wine. It’s really not fair, what he does to her. He should be illegal. Oh… wait.

“There’s a pool at the hotel,” she informs him, quick to expel legality issues from her easily deceivable mind. “So you should probably bring bathers,” she says, her thoughts instead wandering to what Louis would look like in nothing but a pair of swimming trunks, water droplets falling from his damp hair, glistening off his bare chest… “And bring some nice, formal clothes too, since we’ll most likely have dinner at the restaurant downstairs, and judging from the description of it on the website, I think it’s a bit fancy,” she adds conclusively.

“So how much is it gonna cost per night? Like, how much should I pay you back?” Louis asks, his fingertips mindlessly running the length of her cheek.

“Pay?” Iris repeats, unable to recall when such a matter was addressed.

“Yeah, I’m gonna pay half the bill, you know,” he tells her adamantly, nodding with confidence.

“No, Louis. This is part of your birthday present. I have it all covered,” she insists, placing her hands over the curve of his biceps, clutching him. He feels so good against her, his body warm and soft and inviting. She’d very much like to know how this position would feel if they were naked, know how it would feel to be taken apart by this beautiful person, to be fucked raw and bare and senseless – to let him take all that he wants.  

“Fuck, at least let me pay a quarter or something. It sounds expensive and I don’t want you to spend _that_ much money on me,” he says, breath catching in his throat when he notices a look of lust flicker across Iris’ eyes, watches her lower lip be tucked behind her teeth.

“Louis,” she manages once she’s cleared the filthy thoughts from her mind. “You’re broke. You said so yourself. And it would be suspicious if you asked your parents for such a large amount of money, and being us, we can’t have that,” she reminds him with a cautious tone.

“True,” Louis agrees, bowing his head and scrunching his brows together as he realises the flaw in that suggestion. “I just… I just want to buy you things, and spoil you,” he admits quietly as he lifts his head, eyes wide with shameless desire. And this time it’s Iris’ breathing which falters, her body going rigid in his arms as he leans in, their breath mingling into one.

Slowly, the tips of their noses meet, and Louis bumps against her, gently nuzzling. Iris’ mouth splits into a grin at the affectionate gesture, slumping forward and into the warmth of Louis’ chest. He’s so adorable, and Iris wants to have sex with him so bad, it’s almost unhealthy.

“Hey, my birthday’s coming up in March,” she informs him, perking up.

Louis replies with a raised brow and a “Yeah?”, voice low, and Iris nods. “Well, I better go find meself a job and finally earn some cash because you deserve the best, Iris Blackstone,” he says sincerely, and she just about melts into a puddle of mush.

“Hmm, yeah… you better,” she agrees, all mock strictness, before surrendering to the temptation and crushing her lips to his, Louis complying happily.

* * *

 

“Fuck,” he curses, jamming the hotel card key into the socket for what can only be the twentieth time, his shoulders set broad from concentration. Iris stands a good distance away, arms crossed, and sighs as Louis conducts another attempt.

It had started off so perfect, the two of them entering the hotel’s lobby arm in arm, Iris comfortably resting her head on his shoulder as he pushed his sunglasses further up his nose. And when the receptionist asked “Room for two?” as confirmation, she couldn’t ignore the heat which spread throughout her entire being, couldn’t ignore Louis’ hand, which pulled her closer by the hip as a display of possession, as if he was saying “Damn right, she’s my girlfriend.”

He’d been so confident, so sure of himself, and as they ascended up floors in a thankfully empty elevator, they even indulged themselves with a brief make out session, stopping before it could escalate too quickly at such an early hour of the night.

But now, Louis has lost all that suaveness, is apologising rapidly as he fumbles about, is making an utter fool of himself.  Something’s causing this sudden drop in confidence, and Iris suspects the culprit to be nerves.

He’s a virgin. She’s been told that; has had the word pass through her brain. But now the gravity of that statement is only beginning to settle.

This is his _first time._ And she can remember hers, can recall butterflies taking flight in the pit of her stomach, can recall a lingering fear, which at multiple points of the night, almost pushed her to scream “Stop!”

It’s a milestone, such a big experience in one’s life, and Louis’ chosen her, of all people, to share it with. Like, he’s admitted to engaging in sexual acts before (which Iris doesn’t wish to ponder too long, as the thought of Louis doing filthy things with someone other than her is actually gut wrenching), but this is the whole ordeal, the full performance, and like, she doesn’t think she’s worthy of that.

“I think they gave us the wrong key,” Louis says helplessly, stepping away from the scene in defeat.

Iris huffs and snatches the card from his grasp, performing a similar action as he did earlier, although this time with the card flipped the correct way. A green dot appears, announcing that the door’s been opened, and Iris gives him a pointed look.

“Right, erm, yeah…” he mumbles, embarrassed as he scratches the back of his head and drops his gaze. “The lock must be, uh, faulty or something.”

Iris smiles at his undeniable cuteness and improbable excuses, twisting the doorknob. She enters their hotel room with Louis following at her heels, and they’re met with a sight which doesn’t exactly correspond with Iris’ financial situation. It’s expensive and luxurious, complete with a freshly made king sized bed in the centre, a wall composed entirely of floor to ceiling windows – offering a magnificent view of Manchester’s simple skyline – a small balcony and a flat screen television. It seems unlikely that she’d be able to afford such a luxury, but she’s been saving up for weeks, setting aside small amounts of her income until she’d gathered enough.

She never imagined that this would be how their first time together would go, always envisioned them to be lounging around her flat one day, one of their make out sessions becoming more heated than usual until _oh look at that, we’re naked._

But this option is proving far better because there’s _anticipation_. It enables time for flirting and cheeky comments and phantom-like touches which only amplify her want for him. Both of them woke up today knowing they were going to get laid, and Iris doesn’t know about Louis, but that’s totally making her a cocky little shit, making her walk with her head held a fraction higher.

“Jesus,” Louis breaths from surprise, never expecting to be presented with such a well-appointed and classy hotel suite.

Naturally, the first thing he does is drop his night bag, spring forward and collapse face-first onto the pristine white sheets, ruining the cleaning staff’s precise work. Iris giggles at his childish antics, her too leaving her bag by the door, and ambles over to the foot of the bed.

“Oh, it’s so soft,” Louis says in delight, snuggling up to the comfy pillows. “Come feel how soft it is, babe,” he demands, blindly reaching a hand out behind him to pat the empty space beside him.

Iris choses to decline that request, as the sight of Louis strewn across a mattress, calling her babe, is provoking filthy thoughts to seep into her mind. And Iris isn’t sure what moves she’d try to pull if she ever agreed to lie next to him, so best save it for later.

“I’m good thanks,” Iris responds, instead opting to inspect the view, pulling the silky curtains further apart to reveal more urban rooftops and scenery. Behind her, Louis continues to make soft noises of delight, ruffling the bedsheets as he shuffles around, and Iris should ideally attempt to block out the provocative noises if she doesn’t want to find herself on top of him in the next couple of seconds, so.

It’s not her fault, really, that she’s having such dirty thoughts. Louis is, without a doubt, strategically setting her up to feel this way, is purposely placing her in such difficult situations. And he is _so_ going to pay for it.

“Babe?” he perks up a moment later, lifting his head. Iris turns towards him but remains speechless. “I’m going to go check out the pool,” he says in his true spontaneous character, tumbling out of bed suddenly.

“You do that,” Iris replies blankly as she watches him pace towards his night bag, kneeling by it before fishing out a pair of bright red swimming trunks. He throws an innocent smile over his shoulder before venturing to the bathroom, and finally all the oxygen returns to her lungs.

In the meantime, while Louis gets changed (and she’s not going to think about whatever naked state he most certainly is in, thank you very much), she conducts a further inspection of the place, flicks through the room service menu, even tests out the comfortableness of tonight’s bed for herself. It’s heavenly, as promised.

When Louis returns, there’s a fluffy white towel draped around his shoulders, obscuring the shirtless Louis that would otherwise be completely visible to her. This immediately disappoints her, but it’s compensated for when Louis momentarily removes the towel to scratch the back of his neck, and— _Fuck._

His stomach is flat. And tanned. And toned. And quite possibly everything Iris could want in a man’s stomach ever. As for his upper torso, he does have budding muscles which years of football practice have rewarded him with, but there’s still this lanky-teenage-boy flatness about him too. Her personal preference is not rock hard abs, and not flab either, and Louis sits perfectly in between.

Noticing her intense staring from her position on the bed, Louis smiles at her, all sweet and innocent, and then the bastard decides to walk over in all his half-naked glory, completely ignorant of the consequences that may have. Iris is fairly sure she looks like a right twat; left fucking speechless by Louis’ assets, which he is perfectly fine with parading around.

“You sure you don’t want to join me?” he asks softly, bringing a hand to her cheek. All Iris can manage is a nod of the head, which she over-exaggerates to ensure she’s understood, and fuck, the way he’s looking at her – it just doesn’t make sense. “Okay,” he laughs, eyes crinkling, then leans forward impossibly closer _and god he smells so good._ He places the gentlest kiss to Iris’ lips, so gentle that when he pulls back Iris can’t even safely say if their lips touched or not, and then he’s waving goodbye and exiting out the door and Iris has never been more glad to be left alone in her life.

 _Fuck— no. You are not masturbating right now. Don’t you dare. He is going to take care of you later tonight and the least you could do is wait for him._  

With a sigh, she lifts herself off the bed and walks to the bathroom, realising that’s the only place she’s yet to explore. It’s modern, has tiles everywhere, as well as a curtain-less shower, a spa-like bathtub, a large vanity and a mirror which stretches across the whole back wall. Her reflection stares back at her, barely blinking, and Iris tries to pick out everything wrong with it, locate the flaws.

Maybe she should brush her teeth again for good measure. Or maybe perform a full inspection of her body to be certain that no hairs were missed or have magically grown back since last night’s shave. She shaved _everywhere,_ even lathered herself in all sorts of body scrubs and fragrances to ensure that she smells sweet and lovely for when things begin to heat up, for when Louis buries his face into the curve of her neck.

But it still doesn’t feel like it’s enough, feels like she’s forgetting so much.

She does give her teeth another quick brush, then pinpoints the smallest and most insignificant smudges in her makeup and corrects them, wanting to look flawlessly immaculate.

She’s interrupted by a vibration in her phone, lighting up the screen with the news of a text from Louis. She opens it and sees the picture he’s sent; his tan legs outspread on a recliner, the background being a crystal-clear blue pool, complete with a caption of **come down, it’s reallllly nice :)**.

And how could she say no? The pool looks lovely. _He_ looks lovely. And the excuse that being around Louis while he’s shirtless could lead to the collapse of her last remaining self-control, doesn’t seem all that relevant right now. At least when he’s not here, in the flesh.

So she drops her mascara brush and sets off towards her night bag, retrieving her swimsuit. It’s the only one she owns, living in Manchester, and it’s a two piece 50’s style design, all high-waisted bottoms and polka dot patterns. It succeeds in covering her tattoo _and_ makes her look quite attractive, if she’s honest.

Grabbing a towel, the room key, and slipping on some flip flops, she navigates her way to the pool, trusting the map provided in the hotel information booklet to guide her there. Upon arrival, she notices the pool’s emptiness, the still nature of the water, and discovers that Louis, who’s sitting at the far end and scrolling through his phone, is the only one here.

It does surprise her for a short moment, but then she remembers that they did arrive just before seven, and dinner is probably the main subject on most of the hotel’s guests’ minds, rather than taking a quick dip in the water.

She approaches quietly, not wishing to make her entrance a huge ceremony, and when Louis’ eyes lift up from the sound of her padding feet, the large smile which graces his lips is stupid and totally uncalled for.

“Hi,” he greets, mouth wide.

“Hi yourself,” she says back, removing the towel which had been cloaked around her for warmth, dropping it onto the recliner next to him and suddenly, Louis’ not smiling anymore.

Jaw dropped, eyes wide, not even bothering to stay inconspicuous as he checks out her bikini clad body, pausing at some areas more than others. Iris pretends to be oblivious to it, running a hand through her hair and looking off to the side as he shamelessly gawks. She hears a quiet whisper of “ _Fuck me,_ ” and tries to force back a smile at how flustered he’s become, at how much this is working.

“You want to go for a swim?” she asks innocuously, gaze snapping back to him, catching him in his hot and bothered state.

“Okay,” he stammers, clearing his throat as he hoists himself up, dropping his phone to readjust the waistband of his trunks. This is just too good.

She grins at him and leads the way, padding towards the pool’s edge. She can sense Louis behind her, hear his hurried footsteps, and she’s just about to throw back some teasing comment about his earlier state of distress when she feels hands on her back, shoving with added force, and then she’s falling into the water with a chocked off yelp, creating a splash.

Louis has returned to his playful self by pushing her into the pool, and Iris isn’t sure whether to be upset or relieved at that transition.

“Fucking wanker!” is what she shouts the moment she’s resurfaced, combing her fingers through her now damp hair. Great. “I was planning on _not_ getting my hair wet, thank you very much,” she spits back at him.

Louis is laughing, however, thinks her discomfort is the funniest thing ever. Maybe she should find a new boyfriend.

He jumps in after her though, producing an even larger splash than she, which manages to drench her once again. But then he’s swimming his way over and all Iris can think about is the way his damp hair sticks to his face, and the way the colour of his eyes matches the crystal-clear water, and she just about sinks.

“You’re gonna pay for that, Tomlinson,” she warns him, trying to look intimidating although failing miserably judging from Louis’ smug, barely fazed attitude.

“Is that so?” he challenges, lifting a brow, and _oh fuck fuck fuck._

All the possible responses which come to her head are lame, so she splashes him instead, hitting him square in the face. It begins a splash war; the both of them making continuous attempts to soak each other as much as possible, giggling all the while. If it were anyone else, Iris would’ve thought it to be stupid and immature and not a way in which she’d like to spend her time. But Louis makes it fun, enough for adrenaline to course through her veins and tiny squeals and yelps to make it past her lips.

This might be what was missing in some of her previous relationships; the ability to have fun together without it being forced or planned, just natural and pure and unadulterated.

“Alright alright alright,” Louis surrenders, raising his hands in defeat. “I think that’s enough plashing, babe.”

Iris smirks at her victory, ceasing her efforts and ready to make some snappy remark about his loss; but then she’s interrupted by a sudden huge horde of water droplets splattering all over her face and she can’t quite think of anything other than ways in which she can get revenge.

So it continues, the pair of them swearing and laughing as they up the ante, each splash more powerful than the last. There’s one assault which is so good, that Iris feels the need to swim away as Louis recovers, fearful of what his response might be. And she can sense him behind her, knows that he’s kicking away too, determined not to be so easily outdone.

The edges of the pool grow closer as she nears a corner, finding herself trapped. Louis catches up and grabs both her arms from behind, pulling her into his chest.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he promises, voice showing no signs of mercy. Ignoring her yells of protest, he begins to tickle her as punishment, discovering all her weak spots and utilizing them to his advantage.

“Okay, okay fine. You win!” Iris gives in, trashing around.

Louis makes a pleased noise and stops, twirling her around so she’s facing him, and Iris doesn’t know if it’s on purpose or not, but they’re really close and they’re really wet and Louis’ eyes are so impossibly blue and just…

Louis seems to be reading her mind, because then he’s grabbing her face and crushing their lips together roughly, no hesitation whatsoever. The kiss is wet and sloppy and everything Iris needs right now.

They pull away breathless, pupils blown wide, Louis still pressing their foreheads together. “Iris,” he mumbles, licking his lips. “You are so fucking _beautiful_.”

And, you know, Iris has never really suffered self-confidence issues regarding her appearance, but ‘beautiful’ is a fucking stretch. Still, she won’t allow that to distract her.

Closing her eyes, she smiles coyly, lulling him into a false sense of security, and then—

“Oh, Jesus, Iris! I thought we agreed; no more splashing!"

* * *

 

It feels a bit like déjà vu as Louis struggles to work the key card once again. This time, she won’t comment on it, won’t exhibit her impatience or demand for him to hurry up, as she’s fairly certain she’d be having trouble too.

After the pool, they’d returned to the hotel room to clean themselves up – in separate rooms, of course. Once fresh and dry, they changed into some more formal clothes for the restaurant, Louis obeying her dress code instructions carefully, wearing a crisp white shirt, black tie and trousers. Actually, they weren’t even trousers, they were skinny jeans. But they complemented him so well, and it became a challenge to sit there – pea risotto in front of her, Louis cutting into his ribeye, the pleasant conversations surrounding them all mingling into background noise – and try to refrain from jumping him right then and there.

In the lift afterwards, however, things suddenly became more real. It was no longer going to be this running daydream in the back of her mind, this fantasy which she turns to whenever she’s bored and alone – it was about to actually happen. That’s what has her so stumped, watching Louis open the door, which he achieves on his third try.

The door swings open, creaking in the silence as Louis looks over at her, tensions high. She can barely speak, barely breathe as he gazes at her with a slightly agape mouth, waiting for one of them to do something, anything.

Swallowing, Louis steps forward, reducing the gap, and his fingertips brush against her waist in a ghost-like manner, not sure if he’s allowed to touch her yet and _oh, this is going to be the death of her._

He breathes once, twice, looks at her with fiery eyes and a chewed on lip, and Iris doesn’t think she’s wanted someone this much in her life.

She sighs from the gravity of it all, and Louis takes that as his cue, surging forward, eliminating whatever was left of that gap, crushing their mouths together. Iris tips back from the momentum of it, the sheer force, and grabs onto Louis’ shoulders for stability. It takes her about half a second to catch on, her mind currently in overdrive from magnitude of it all, but when she does she’s incredibly eager, kissing back with an equal level of passion, hands instinctively reaching to find solace in his soft hair.

Louis groans softly into her mouth, brow furrowing from deep focus, and then his hands are gripping her butt, hauling her up. Latching onto him, she tilts her head to allow the kiss to be deepened, to allow Louis’ tongue inside.

They’re breathing so heavily, God – and Louis is _ravenous_ , clawing at her with restless need, biting at her lips like he’s trying to devour her, the sounds he’s making almost _feral._ They stumble through the doorway, both of them banging their head on something more than twice, but they’ve forgotten how to care. Still wrapped up in each other, they travel towards the side of the bed, Iris’ hands roaming desperately over his shirt, like she’s trying to grab hold of a button to undo, she’s just too worked up to even concentrate.

Louis drops down at the edge of the mattress, pulling her with him. Sat in his lap, with her legs astride him, Iris breaks the kiss and breathes for what’s probably the first time this past minute. It’s too much, too fast, and Iris needs time to gather her bearings, slow things down.

Having not turned the lamps on, the room is bathed in a semi-darkness, the only light being the muted yellow of Manchester’s light pollution, seeping through the window and moving across Louis’ face. His pupils are blown so impossibly wide that Iris can’t even make out the blue anymore, can only see black in the eyes of this beautiful person, staring right back at her.

“Are… are you sure you want to do this?” she chokes out through the tight confines of her throat. Iris didn’t want to ask this question, didn’t want to think about the possibility of him saying no, but she needs to hear it from him, needs to know.

Louis takes in a sharp breath, looking down to the place where their hips are aligned. It’s dead silent apart from their breathing, and all Iris can think about is the way his eyelashes are fanned against his cheeks, the ends of his chestnut hair tickling her face, the feel of his hands at her butt, keeping her close. “Iris, I’ve wanted to… for so long, I—“ he tells her, swallowing thickly. “Do you want to?” he asks, looking back up. He looks so awfully young in that small moment, so small and unsure.

Iris nods. “Yeah,” she answers, not thinking twice. “I really do,”

He smiles at her, eyes alight with fiery joy, and then they’re kissing again, savouring whatever this is – this heated, restless want for each other – and not daring to glance back.

Hands grip skin as they continue to kiss, little moans and whimpers being exchanged in those short moments when they’ve pulled away. Iris grasps his tie and starts to loosen it, Louis too beginning to strip her down, finding the zipper of her dress and tugging with force. Iris feels like she’s spinning, feels like her brain is two seconds away from short-circuiting.

Four months ago, she was starting her new job as a teacher, discovering that one of her students is more than a little bit attractive, contemplating fleeing the country. Now, said student is her boyfriend, and they’re in a hotel room together, about to do things which back then she’d only dreamed of – all those nights when she’d sweated into her sheets, seeing ghosts of him behind her eyelids. It’s fucking insane, is what it is.

They pull back to allow Iris to lift his tie up and over his head. In the process, his hair becomes even messier than before, making him look so incredibly wild and beautiful; lips glazed, eyes dark. Iris can’t wait to get her mouth on him, to know how it feels to watch him fall apart.

Completely unzipped, Louis’ hands grasp the bottom hem of her dress, lifting up slowly. There’s a little spark of uncertainty, like he still can’t believe he gets to do this, so Iris smiles at him reassuringly and angles her hips slightly, trying to speed up the action. Louis pulls upwards, and she can feel her body becoming colder and more exposed as the seconds drag on, revealing more of herself to him. She raises her arms so the bunched up fabric can be bought over her head, listens to the sound of it being tossed carelessly to the ground, followed by a quiet gasp.

The look on Louis’ face could only be described as complete and utter lust, his focus narrowing to her upper chest. She will admit, the fact that her bra and underwear set is composed more of sheer, white lace than actual fabric might be a bit distracting, but even that doesn’t justify the look in his eyes; the gleam of desire which has her just about squirming in his lap.

“Iris,” he breathes, and she doesn’t know how but their faces have suddenly leaned closer, foreheads touching. She watches; watches his tongue dart out to wet his lips, watches a lump travel down his throat, watches his eyes flicker down and his hands reach up, resting just below her breasts.

And then, craning an arm behind her, Iris unclasps her bra, allowing it to fall forward off her chest. Louis’ eyes seem look up in slow motion, fixating on what he’d been silently begging for, and Iris swears she hears his breath hitch.

“Fuck,” is all he can say, hands instantly sliding up to cup over the soft curves of her breasts, thumbs pressing into her nipples. She makes a small noise of agreement, because yes, _fuck_ , and then their mouths meet once again to form a frenzied kiss.

His hands are warm, and his touch has her just about arching her back, trying to scoot as close to him as possible. They barely have any restraint now, just Louis’ hands eagerly feeling her up and Iris placing wet, open-mouth kisses to his lips, the two of them unknowingly leaning further towards the mattress.

Louis finally cracks, falling down onto the soft sheets and grabbing her with him, their chests pressed flush together. And Iris may have liked his shirt before, when it hugged his body snugly and made him look dapper, but now it’s just annoying, obstructing her from experiencing the thrill of his skin on hers. Both of them have the same idea, fingers grasping hold of the first button they can find and undoing frantically. And once Louis’ shrugged his shirt off his shoulders, Iris drops down, their naked chests pressed flat against each other, sending off a sensation which is almost erotic.

Louis cups her face and kisses her, long and deep and slow, and fuck, Iris is beginning to feel lightheaded, not just from the glass of champagne she consumed at dinner but from the knowledge that this is Louis – the boy in her Lit class who she almost had a meltdown upon taking a first glance at, the one who she made fun of classical paintings with and received messages full of unnecessary frog emojis from and got pushed into a pool by, and not to mention, the one who _likes her back._ He’s _here_ and this is _happening_ , and if Iris doesn’t pull herself together soon there is a probable chance that she might, in fact, die.

A low moan exits from Louis’ mouth and an overwhelming surge of lust overtakes her, everything else turning to static as all she can focus on is Louis and the thought of him making that sound continuously, making that sound on a daily basis.

She mouths at his jaw, kisses his neck, needing to taste more of him. His response is another small groan, but this time he clutches her tighter, encourages her to continue.

Before she can stop herself, she lowers down a little to kiss the skin above his collarbones and fuck fuck fuck this is _such_ a terrible idea. It’s more than terrible, it’s horrendous. This is his first time, and they’ve already been pushing it with a make out session in which Iris’ hips haven’t remained still. This would be crossing the line, practically throwing away all hope that Louis will last until the end. But… he looks so good and Iris has been waiting so long, and does she honestly have the capacity to care about anything at the moment? No.

She makes the slow descent down his chest, dusting his heated skin with light kisses. Louis’ caught on and has weaved his fingers through her hair, coaxing her down with not enough force to be demanding, but enough to tell her that yeah, he wants her to do that. Past his navel, his flat stomach which Iris thinks might now be her favourite thing in the world, and she arrives at his waistband. It’s one thing to feel a small bulge, know of its existence, but it’s another thing to be faced with it.

“Baby,” Louis croaks from further up the bed. Her eyes snap up, meeting his gaze, and Iris has dreamed about being in this position before, but it’s a completely different feeling to actually be in it, to see Louis from this angle. His eyes are hooded and he’s propped up on his elbows, his hair having been sculpted earlier into this beautiful, enticing mess by her hands. The only things moving on his face are the lights of the city, casting shadows and highlighting his beauty. “You don’t… you don’t have to do this, if you don’t want to,” he assures her, sounding a bit stupid.

The only response Iris can think of to that is to reach for his fly and begin undoing. He hisses out a small breath as her hands brush over his hard-on, the muscles of his stomach contracting slightly. Button unclasped, zipper down, and Iris starts to pull, slipping the black denim fabric of his jeans down his thighs. If she still had her last remaining ounce of patience, she’d probably find time to marvel at the way he looks in nothing but black boxer briefs, how the thin material makes his boner look more defined, but all she can think about is how much she needs to get her mouth on him.

Once his jeans are a reasonable distance down his legs, she stops, levelling her face with his crotch again. Louis contributes by kicking them the rest of the way off, panting slightly, as the sight of Iris – his Literature teacher/girlfriend – between his legs, is probably tearing his mind in half.

She has to pause now, gulp down a lump in her throat, because this is the thing which she’s been anticipating the most, the moment which makes the night.

Her hands tentatively slip under this second waistband, made of elastic and bearing the label ‘Topman’ across the whole surface. Louis can’t keep still, his chest rising and falling rapidly while his fingers enclose around bunched up handfuls of bed sheets, trying to get a grip on something. Then, Iris peels down at a torturous speed, taking her time, and…

Christ. Fuck. _Shit._

He looks to be about seven inches, _bordering on eight._ He has a nice girth; not thick enough to have her cringing, but a perfect, even thickness which momentarily makes her want to skip to the part where Louis shoves it inside her. He’s flushed and leaking, one or two small beads of pre-cum surfacing at his tip. And, god, if Iris didn’t have a job to do she might consider just sitting here for a little while longer and admiring this view.

There’s been enough build up already, and all she really needs is him, _right now,_ so she places her two hands on his hips, holding him still, closes her eyes and slides her mouth down him.

The moan Louis produces could well be described as pornographic. It’s impossibly loud and probably unnecessary, but it sends heat to the place between her thighs, makes her dig her hips far into the mattress, try to get some purchase. She replies by moaning around his cock, because yeah, this is pretty amazing, she will admit.

His cock is heavy on her tongue, filling up her mouth in a way which she knows will cause aches in her jaw to surface later. It’s the least of her concerns, however, and so she works carefully, gently sucking as she listens to Louis’ shaky, uneven breathing.

“Iris,” he manages, hardly coherent. “ _Fuck_. Your… _your mouth._ ”

She moans softly in agreement once again, lifting her hands up to wrap them around the base of his cock. She knows he’s had this done to him before, but that was undoubtedly with some inexperienced young girl in his year level, judging by his loud reactions which can’t be justified by the simple movements she’s conducting. It may not be his first ever, but it’s the first one which seems to have actually felt, you know, _good._ Like, _really good._

One of his hands reaches down to clumsily stroke her hair as praise, and Iris decides to go deeper, figures he deserves that. Due to Louis’ absurd length and the existence of Iris’ gag reflex, it’s impossible to take him all in. But when she suddenly plunges herself further down she does manage to fit in a good portion of him, and Louis’ hips lift off the mattress in surprise.

“ _Oh baby,_ ” he breathes, beginning to rock his hips slowly against her mouth, tug on her hair with more force.

Iris spares a moment to peer up at him, realising her eyes have been fixated on the sight in front of her for the entire duration. His eyes are screwed tightly shut, head thrown back as his lips mouth what looks to be ‘fuck’ over and over. One hand is gripping the pillow behind him, knuckles turning white, while the other is buried deep within her brown hair.

It’s clear by the way the muscles of his stomach are tightening that if she keeps this up any longer, he might actually come. So she pulls off, his cock sliding out of her mouth with a pop. Abruptly, all the small sounds of pleasure which he’d been making come to a stop, a silence taking over. Louis looks down at her in complete disdain.

“I was enjoying that, you know,” he whines, using the hand he had tangled in her hair to poke at her shoulder.

She only smiles at him sheepishly as she crawls up to his level, saying “Yeah, but you nearly came.”

Kissing him tenderly, she pulls back only to discover that the look on his face still shows that he’s not satisfied.

“And we don’t want that to happen. Yet,” she adds, and Louis chuckles before humming in delight, thinking of all that’s still to come.

They kiss a bit more, both of them naked with the exception of Iris’ underpants, and she’s convinced that she could probably do this for the rest of her life, were she given the opportunity. He’s so warm and he’s such a good kisser and naked Louis might actually be a gift from the universe – a gift which only she gets to enjoy.

Louis’ lips part from hers, and she’s just about to suggest they, you know, start actually fucking each other, when Louis cuts her off, asking, “Can I do you?” as he places a hand on her thigh, and _oh._ Iris didn’t even think of that.

“If… if you want to, I guess,” she stammers awkwardly, her mind suddenly turning into a muddled mess at the thought of Louis doing that, the thought of his head between her thighs.

Louis isn’t turned off by her lameness, just wants to get down there and taste her, wants to return the favour. He grins at her, all sweet and innocent, and then fast enough to give her whiplash, he slides down until his face is aligned with her crotch, still peering up at her. There’s a playful twinkle in his eyes, his mouth curved into the most seductive of smiles, and it’s probably been, what, thirty seconds since she could last breathe? Yeah, probably.

It’s completely overwhelming, and as Louis’ fingers glide up her milky thighs, stopping to hook into her underwear, heart failure seems likely, judging from the way it’s practically pounding out of her chest. Like, she’s been eaten out before, is not in any way new to this, but the way she’s carrying on holds resemblance to the first time this happened, when underneath all the pleasure there’d been this weird, foreign feeling too. He’s so beautiful, so gorgeous and lovely and _willing to do this_ , and Iris is having trouble wrapping her head around it.

Louis’ fingers begin to pull the white material of her underwear down, his thumbs digging into the space where her thighs are pressed together, asking her to spread. She does so, exposing a small damp patch on the stretch of fabric which covers her heat, and fuck, she can’t even bring herself to look at him. He’s probably smirking like an idiot, hiding his lower lip behind his teeth.

She feels a coolness and knows she’s no longer covered, waits with a held breath as the material is slipped past her knees, all the way to her ankles. She decides to look up now, watch as he unhooks her underwear off her feet and – _Christ_ – tosses it behind him, the lacy material landing draped over a lamp. This is it, this is her favourite sight all year; Louis kneeling between her thighs, his hard cock standing flush against his stomach, her underwear left disregarded on the other end of the room.

He looks up, gaze roaming over her naked body, and she’s never felt so exposed in her life.

“Iris, I’ve…I’ve never done this before,” he reminds her as he crawls closer, mouth nearing her slit. All his movements are slow and hesitant, highlighting how nervous he is, and each time he makes some sort of progression, he’ll look up with questioning eyes, silently asking if everything’s okay. It’s incredibly adorable, and Iris wants to capture this moment and frame it, remember it when she’s sad.

Amongst the heavy clamouring of her heart and the fog in her brain, Iris thought speaking to be impossible, but she manages.

“It’s okay,” she assures him, reaching down to move the clump of hair which has fallen over his face, “I’ll tell you what feels good,” she promises.

Louis sighs and hums contently, pressing the gentlest kiss to the inside of her thigh, and it’s then that Iris appreciates how close his mouth is to her heat. She’s wet – she’s so _fucking_ wet, has been since the elevator ride up here. And she needs this more than anything right now, feels like she’s been waiting forever. It’s been so many months of endless longing, wanting Louis to touch her like this, and now that it’s on the cusp of happening, Iris can’t think straight.

He places one, two, three kisses to the juncture of her thigh, irritably close to where she needs him, looking up at her through thick lashes. And then, he shifts forward, eyes fanning shut, and _oh god, Louis is actually about to go down on me, holy fucking shit._

She almost laughs. It’s absurd, is what it is. Completely obscene. But then Louis’ tongue pokes out and makes careful contact with her slit, and, nope, Iris isn’t smiling anymore.

It feels like fireworks, like explosions, like electricity. It feels like there’s tiny jolts of starlight rattling her body, intensifying as Louis’ tongue flicks up, licking over her hole. Iris loves this feeling more than anything, is familiar with it, but it’s as if it’s amplified by the sheer knowledge that it’s Louis down there, the boy who made her feel levels of desire which she never thought were possible. He’s not even focusing on her most sensitive area, has situated himself a fair way below, but it feels so incredible, and she’s gasping – short puffs of breath spilling from her, her heartrate unable to calm down.

“Mmmm,” Iris whimpers, watching as the corners of his mouth curl upwards, as his tongue slips out again. She’s not sure if he’s enjoying the physical act or the fact that it’s getting Iris off, she’s just relieved that he’s comfortable and happy. “Mmm, up a bit,” she instructs him breathlessly, her clit demanding attention.

Louis obeys, moving his mouth further up. His tongue rolls over her nub, soft and gentle, and Iris’ hips spring off the mattress a little, her body caving around him.

“Oh, _Louis,_ ” she pants, trying to refrain from kneading her hands through his slightly sweaty, chestnut locks and pushing him further down. “That feels so good,” she moans, hands gripping bedsheets tighter.

He moans back, voice muffled, and then traps her clit between his two lips, gently sucking. His hands are bracketing her hips, fingertips digging in harshly, and if it weren’t for them she’d probably be thrusting into his mouth right about now.

She watches his lower lip move against her wetness, his tongue swirl around her clit, and Jesus, if she knew it was going to feel this good, she wouldn’t have even bothered waiting until he turned eighteen.

She tries to swallow down noises, but knows it’s impossible for all this to be bottled up inside her. Moans and whimpers escape, each one causing Louis to lick with added force and speed. He looks so fucking good; cheekbones sharp, brow creased from concentration, a lump bobbing down the column of his throat. And his thin, long mouth feels amazing, his lips glazed with saliva and Iris’ wetness.

A familiar heaviness begins to form, and no, Iris won’t let that happen, no matter how good the prospect of an orgasm may seem right now.

“Louis,” she pleads desperately, his blue-green eyes snapping up to meet her gaze. He looks almost feral. “Baby, stop,” she whines, struggling to keep still, her ribcage rattling from the sharp intakes of breath. He licks one more stripe up her slit, using only the tip of his tongue, and then he pulls off, lips red and swollen.

It takes her a little while to come back to her senses, and when she does she expects him to maybe lick his lips teasingly or offer her a suggestive smirk, say something in a smooth, sultry tone.

But then she realises that the bastard is actually laughing. Face pressed into the side of her hip, eyes crinkled, and giggling softly like it’s the funniest thing in the world.

Iris sort of agrees. Four months ago, she was drinking wine in her flat, ranting all her feelings out to Florence and trying with all her might _not_ to touch herself whenever the thought of Louis crossed her mind. Today… well.

His laugh is contagious, makes her feel liquid and warm, like nothing really matters, and she finds herself joining in.

They both just went down on each other, and it wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable, but perfectly natural and easy. Iris feels so relaxed, even more excited for the night, like she’s been drugged or something. Whatever it is, Iris is certain that tonight’s going to be memorable.

“Come here,” she orders playfully, needing to kiss him. His smile is wide as ever as he crawls his way back up, hair an absolute catastrophe. They spend the next minute or so kissing and laughing and grinding their hips together, savouring the taste of each other on their tongues.

“Fuck, Iris, I—“ he starts, pausing to giggle as she peppers his cheeks with tiny kisses “I need to get inside you, baby,” he finishes, voice still laced with humour.

“Right, yeah, and, uh, what’s stopping you from doing that, exactly?” she asks impatiently, causing him to laugh a bit more, shake his head and capture her lips with his again.

They’re just two people, naked on a bed, wrapped up in each other with the city lights as their background and their jagged breathing as their soundtrack, and Iris has never been more content in her life.

“Mmmph,” Louis moans into their kiss, pulling away. “Condoms, we need condoms,” he mutters, and with that, practically tumbles off the side of the bed, hopping his way over to his night bag.

And you know what? Iris is going to be extremely frank here. His butt, is actually heaven. Honestly, _wow._

He returns with a shiny square package trapped between his teeth, bringing two hands up to hold it in place as he rips an opening. Climbing back onto the bed, he kneels beside her and carefully rolls the condom over his erection. As he settles back down, Iris places a hand on his bicep, halting him.

“Louis,” she says, swallowing. “Well, ‘cause it’s your first time and all, do you think maybe I should start on top?” she asks, tilting her head to the side.

He nods. “Yeah.” Kisses her cheek. “Fuck, I’d love to watch you ride me, babe.”

They laugh for no apparent reason whatsoever, as they have been for the last five minutes, and then Iris decides to make the first move, crawling over to straddle his hips. One of his hands grips her butt, the other is used to push her down from a sitting position so their chests are pressed flush together and he’s able to kiss her.

They’re halfway through a messy kiss when Louis stops, and asks, “Hey, what’s that?” making every muscle in Iris’ body tense up.

“What’s what?” she asks, trying to disguise the slight fear in her voice, because really, what the fuck is wrong? She needs to know.

“This… this pinstripe tattoo thing on your lower back,” he answers, just as she feels his fingertips trace over that point. It does relieve her that there’s no major problem, but her tattoo is a subject she doesn’t prefer to speak about.

“Oh, um, just this thing I got a couple of years ago in France. It’s pretty embarrassing and I kind of hate it,” she admits, shrugging.

“Why do you hate it, love?” Louis asks curiously, sitting back to look at her.

“Well, it’s pretty pointless. I just got it done while I was a little drunk and now I have to live with it for the rest of my life,” she explains.

“Well, I think it’s _incredibly_ sexy,” Louis objects, hands cupping her cheeks, and Iris has to look away she’s so in denial. “I mean it,” he promises, kissing her jaw. A few more affectionate gestures exchanged, and then he’s putting an end to it, saying “Alright babe, if my dick is not inside you in the next twenty seconds at least, I might actually murder you.”

And so Iris gets into position, her slit aligning with the head of Louis’ cock, and sinks down in one smooth motion, engulfing his length. Her mouth gapes open just a little, making room for all the silent moans she can’t control, and a loud, guttural groan rips through Louis, both his hands now placed on her butt, pushing her down. It’s so tight and hot and perfect, Louis’ impressive girth filling her up well.

They stay there for a moment, just enjoying the fullness and the heat, and then Louis rolls his hips against hers and fuck, there goes the end of that.

It’s frantic afterwards, both of them swearing and gasping and moving together, Louis’ hands guiding her to meet each thrust. Her clit rubs against the scratchy skin of his pubic bone with each grind, and it only adds to the pleasure, the heat pulsing throughout her entire body.

“Iris, baby,” Louis groans, head thrown back. He looks so fucking dirty; his tanned skin lined with a thin sheen of sweat, his chestnut locks spouting in every direction imaginable, and his lips turned red and raw and swollen. His stomach is fluttering, muscles gone taut, and Iris leans down to place soft kisses on his collarbones, a complete contrast to the ruthless manner in which their hips are moving at.

He looks down, focus narrowing to the place where his cock is sliding in and out of her, and lets out another obscene moan, loving the wetness and the heat, wrapped so deliciously tight around him.

Iris feels raw, split open on Louis’ cock, but she’d ask for more if she could.

One of his hands slides around to her hips, pushing them sideways a little “Shit, babe, can I—“ he pants, finding the confidence to be on top, to dominate her.

Nodding desperately, Iris slides off him, allowing Louis to spin them round and switch their positions. His hands find her tiny waist, holding her close, while she wraps both arms around his warm body and digs her nails into his back for stability, preparing herself.

Louis takes a steadying breath, gathers his bearings while Iris waits patiently, knowing he’s probably nervous by the sudden influx of control he’s been given. She decides to hook her legs around his waist as encouragement, to prompt him along.

For a moment it’s silent, besides the sound of their breathing and the occasional creak from the mattress, struggling under the weight. And then, Louis’ hips snap forward, re-entering her, and neither of th-em can stifle their moans.

His thrusts are a bit sloppy, with him lacking experience and all, but Iris loves it, especially when she remembers the person who’s suspended above her – makes her toes curl and her head tip back in pleasure.

His hips move clumsily as he buries her face into the curve of her neck, begins pressing light kisses to her pale skin. There’s one time in which Louis pulls all the way out, only to find that when he tries slamming back inside, his cock just gets caught between her slit and his stomach.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says quickly, embarrassed.

“It’s okay, it happens,” she assures him impatiently, wanting nothing more than for him to just continue pounding into her.

When he slides in again, he shifts the angle of his hips a bit, sending sparks through Iris’ veins.Okay, now _this_ feels good.

“ _Louis_ ,” she just about shouts, clutching him tighter and lifting her hips up to meet his in counterpart, creating and even better friction. “Fuck, right there.”

Acknowledging Iris’ pleasure, Louis starts to go double time, hitting that precise angle with every thrust, never failing to pull a whine out of her. He just keeps pounding into her, leaving her no time to think or breathe or feel anything other than the tight pleasure, before he’s thrusting into her again. It’s just bucking hips and hands clawing at each other’s skin and a creaking mattress which can barely cope. Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

And Louis is trembling, his expression showing pain as he tries not to come with unfathomable determination, breath becoming laboured. He’s so close – Iris can feel it – yet he’s choosing to hold it off.

She’s admittedly surprised that he made it this long, to be honest, and Iris wants to relieve him, doesn’t like seeing her baby in so much discomfort.

Luckily, she can feel the beginnings of her orgasm too, like walls closing around her. “Oh, Louis I’m so close,” she pants breathlessly, her nails dragging down his back as she struggles to maintain balance, creating red, raised lines on his skin.

He grunts, feeling it too, and then he thrusts upwards at this one specific spot, and _that’s it, right there._

Her orgasm rips through her, bringing her to a brand new tier of pleasure, toes curling and she hisses out his name. Louis follows a couple of seconds later, triggered by Iris’ walls clenching around him, and even through the latex she can feel him cum inside her, hot and pulsing.

They both turn into jelly, completely spent as they ride out their orgasms in each other’s arms. Everything’s a bit hazy, and all Iris knows is that they’re kissing and they’re moaning and they’re both so fucking happy.

Once Louis’ pulled out he collapses beside her, practically gasping for air. She’s not any better, sounding like she just run a marathon. When their breaths have somewhat returned, they turn to each other, eyebrows raised, and nothing even needs to be said, it’s written on their faces; _that was amazing._

Louis grins at her like an idiot, still panting, while Iris pulls the duvet up and over them, surrounding them with even more warmth.

They snuggle up under the sheets, both exhausted and naked, and find no difficulty in drifting off to sleep, arms wrapped tightly around each other.

* * *

 

Six in the morning, with the sounds of the waking city and the brightness of the early sun filtering through the hotel room's windows, Iris emerges from sleep, her eyelids drifting open as a soft noise of displeasure vibrates in the back of her throat.

She doesn't awake to an empty mattress, is the thing which evokes a sleepy smile of contentment to her face.

Her face is pressed into a warm, breathing chest; the skin smooth and tanned and almost glowing from the glare of the rising sun. She peers up, discovering the sight of Louis, expression serene and relaxed, consumed in a deep slumber. His head is resting against the soft pillows, his hair messily sprouting in all different directions, and his arms are unconsciously wrapped tightly around Iris, his hands cupping her butt. He breathes a loud sigh in his sleep, writhing around in the king sized bed, lightly kicking at the sheets. Iris smiles helplessly before biting into her lip, wondering how on earth she, of all people, could possibly deserve this boy.

She wriggles her way up, aligning her face with his, and reaches forward to move a clump of hair out of his face. His brow furrows at that, and he begins to stir, gradually resurfacing into consciousness at the interruption. His eyelids open, revealing the pretty blue irises which had been so focused on her the previous night, watching her every move with intense desire, passionate need. With hooded eyes, his gaze settles on his girlfriend, taking in her morning appearance: pupils blown wide, hair a mess, and her cleavage peeking out from the white sheets they have draped around them.

"Mornin' baby," he rasps out, a grin dawning across his face as he remembers the night before: her wet heat wrapped so wonderfully tight around his hard cock, her sweat soaked skin, the sound of her desperate moans and whimpers as she came undone beneath him.

"Hey Lou," she murmurs, mirroring the same amorous expression. Before she can stop herself, she's leaning forward so their breaths are mingling into one, noses bumping together. She pauses there for a second, just soaking up the soft melt of the moment, the warmth which Louis' body is radiating - how it's seeping across the mattress, through her skin. He grows impatient, and with a discontented whine he tilts his jaw up to capture her lips with his. They kiss tenderly, tongues slipping out to taste each other, noses mushed together. It's so sweet and lovely and honest that Iris is having trouble believing that this is all real, is speculating on whether Louis actually exists or if he's just been a figment of her imagination for four whole months.

After pulling away, he sounds a gentle noise of fulfilment, snuggling further into the pillow, and then his eyes are drooping shut again, reminding Iris that he's still quite exhausted from the vigour of last night's activities.

She's quite tired and sore as well - one doesn't get fucked as ravenously as that and expect to be perfectly up and running the following morning. But she's found from experience that once she's awake, there's really no going back, so trying to settle back into sleep would be pointless. Instead she turns herself around, no longer facing her boyfriend, but the brilliant view of the city which had been their backdrop as they made love so passionately. The sky is a bluey grey, and she can see the morning sunlight glitter off buildings and watch the dense flow of traffic on the streets, rows of cars which seem so small; not just from the height she's placed at, but from the fact that everything commercial and adult-like has started to seem stupid and trivial ever since Louis tumbled into her life.

Hiking the covers further up her body, she breathes in the air, still doused with the scent of Louis' deodorant and Iris' perfume and cum and sweat and overall, pure sex. It's Friday. In two more days, they're gonna be back at Farleigh Heights. Louis is going to be her student and Iris is going to be his teacher, and all this fantasy they've created; this world where they can walk through art galleries hand in hand and splash each other in swimming pools and have lustful, steamy sex in a luxurious hotel suite, is all going to be put on the backburner. Iris is not anticipating it with great enthusiasm.

She needs tea, she's decided. Her mouth is dry and parched, and all this thought of returning their lives back to normal is leaving her in a desperate search for a distraction. She pries the sheets away from her body and takes one step out towards the carpeted floor. Compared to Louis' warmth which she'd just been basking in, the outside temperature is less than desirable, and her naked state isn't helping. A few more steps, and she's noticing an ache in her thighs, pulsing with almost every movement she makes. Louis really did give it his all last night, she'll give him that.

Arriving at the countertop by the wardrobe, stocked with packets of peanuts, crisps, and other hotel amenities, she reaches for a bag of English Breakfast tea and flicks the kettle on, filling the room with the noise of water being steamed.

A soft groan originating from the bed causes for Iris to peer behind her shoulder. Louis' awake yet again, his eyes hooded and lazy as he tries to focus them on her. He points his gaze at her butt, admiring her current lack of clothes as she reaches for the tea cups. Iris knows he's staring, but can't be arsed to scold him. In fact, let him. Since when did she mind?

She grins at him knowingly before placing a teacup by the kettle and heading off towards the bathroom, because she'll be damned if she lets Louis kiss her whilst she has morning breath again.

The first thing she encounters in the vast, tiled room is a mirror, stretching across the length of the entire back wall. And ‘dishevelled’ doesn’t even remotely cut it as a valid adjective to describe the reflection she’s met with.

Panda eyes due to failure to remove her makeup, catastrophic hair from the intensity of last night – the culprit most likely being Louis’ hands when she went down on him.

And the funny thing is, she doesn’t care.

If Louis woke up to this sight and decided the first thing he should do is kiss her, then that’s a clear indication that she really shouldn’t worry about her appearance.

She leaves the bathroom with minty breath and a fluffy white bathrobe tied around her waist, instantly checking the progress of her tea.

“Wait, we have bathrobes?” is the first thing which leaves Louis’ mouth, perking up from the mattress curiously.

“Yeah, in the cupboard by the sink,” Iris answers like it’s obvious, dunking in a teabag.

Louis kicks the covers away from his body and Iris is reminded of his naked state, remembers why she described it last night as a ‘gift from the universe’. He has a bit of morning wood going on, which Iris might consider addressing later.

As Louis bounds off to the bathroom in search of a robe identical to hers, Iris takes her freshly brewed tea out to the balcony, enjoying the crisp air. Her thoughts wander to the previous night, recalling all the events; having a splash war in the hotel’s pool, eating a nice dinner together before of course, fucking each other raw. She’s just reliving the part where Louis traced her tattoo with his fingers, where he expressed how attractive he thought it was, when she feels hands clasping over her shoulders, positioned as if they’re about to push her over the railing.

Iris nearly screams, nearly spills her tea from the shock of it, and when she spins around and finds Louis to be the culprit, she’s not impressed.

“Fuck, you scared me,” she scolds him, inching away.

“Oh c’mon babe, it wasn’t that bad,” he defends.

“Yeah, well, I have a fear of heights, and I’m an extremely jumpy person,” she reasons, pouting at him.

“Nawww babe, I’m sorry,” he coos exaggeratedly, wrapping his arms around her small frame from behind. Despite her current distaste for him, she nevertheless clutches onto one of his arms, keeping him close. “So, what time do we have to check out again?” he asks.

“Ten o’clock,” she answers, voice bitter.

“So that leaves us four hours…” he trails off, leaving it to her imagination to finish that suggestion. As tempting as it is, Iris has to maintain the fact that she’s mad at him. Agreeing to morning sex won’t help.

A silence passes over, in which Louis waits hopefully for her to respond. When she doesn’t in the way he wants her to, he tries again, saying, “Well, I’m gonna go take a shower… if you’ll care to join me.”

He slips out from behind her, padding back into the hotel room, and Iris can’t help but peer back at him as he leaves. His hands are untying his bathrobe, soon shrugging it off his shoulders and letting it drop carelessly to the floor. Iris takes note of his naked state from behind as he continues his walk, lightly swaying his hips in a way which must be intentional, and it’s gravity which she blames for why she follows him a second later.

Yeah, gravity.

 

 

 

                                                                                       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Christ, why is she even here at this ungodly hour, sitting at her desk and fiddling with her files, when she could very easily still be at her flat, relishing the last few hours of freedom before the school term officially starts again. But no, she's here at work, having made the mistake of leaving home far too early than necessary due to overestimation of traffic, and joining her in the lonely staff room is William Hammond, who too has a habit of arriving to work at ridiculous hours, and isn't that just fucking brilliant?

She’s trying to ignore him, pretend to look busy so he won’t have an excuse to come bounding up with a cheery hello and an awkward question of how her holidays were. The situation doesn’t look good, however, as she can see him contemplating it, his feet beginning to lift off the ground. She needs to engage in something that demands more of her attention, something which screams ‘don’t talk to me’, so she grabs her copy of Sylvia Plath’s _The Bell Jar,_ the new text for her Lit class,and begins reviewing it intently, hoping it will fend him off.

A majority of her weekend was spent annotating this book, covering the margins with sticky notes while her phone buzzed with incoming texts from Louis – most of them gushing about how much he loved Thursday night and how much he can’t wait to see her on Monday. She’s pretty excited to see him too this morning, but she won’t give him that satisfaction.

They’re starting a new topic in class today, based around the theme ‘minds under stress’. They’re analysing and comparing _Hamlet, The Bell Jar_ and _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,_ then applying that to an extensive essay which is to be written in class. Iris has a gut feeling that Louis’ going to need a lot of help to pass this unit, and can already foresee numerous late nights in her flat, the two of them eating takeaway as they sit surrounded by notes and practice essays. 

She’s just underlining an important observation in her notes, mentally rehearsing how she’s going to explain it to the class as they read through the text in today’s lesson, when she hears a creak. A distinct creak. A creak she hears every time someone puts their weight on this one specific area of aged flooring by her desk, followed by a cough. Lord, no.

“Hey, Iris,” she hears, and it takes all her strength not to wince in annoyance. Instead, she twists her face into the most polite smile she can muster, trying to remain positive.

“Hiya,” she replies with a bit too much enthusiasm for it to not be staged, but William perseveres, ignoring her clear distaste. That, or he’s the most oblivious man on the planet.

He makes a comment on the beginning of the new school term, customarily expresses his misery of the break being so short, and Iris nods along, offering amiable laughs when necessary. Inwardly, however, she’s not paying an ounce of attention, and is instead reminding herself of all that’s good in the world by remembering last Thursday’s events; Louis suspended above her, his jagged breathing and careful pace…

An offhand mention of a school assembly captures her focus, and she pauses her reimagining of Louis fucking her to question William further on the topic.

“Wait, we have an assembly this morning?” she interrupts, furrowing her brow and hoping she heard incorrectly.

“Yeah, just after the first bell,” he answers casually, leaning against her desk. “All staff are required to help ‘keep the pupils in line’, as John said,” he adds, and the mention of Mr Waters has her stomach just about churning.

This morning has actually been the worst. First, William Hammond. Second, the news of a whole school assembly which she’ll have to endure. And on top of that, it’s fucking pouring outside, many of the students she’s seen wandering the grounds wearing some sort of raincoat over their uniform. To conclude, she really can’t wait to see Louis, the only person who could possibly lift her spirits following such unfortunate events.

By the time she’s in the hall, listening to the headmaster’s welcome back speech before launching into college news, she could safely be considered bored out of her mind. There’s an announcement of a charity fashion show that the textiles students are running, a reminder of the school uniform policy, a ‘good luck’ to the football team, who are versing their rivals next Saturday (Iris makes a mental note to quiz Louis on that one, ask if he’d like for her to come), and finally, the kids are dismissed.

That should be a relief, but no, it means commencing the undesirable task of ushering the students out in an orderly manner, which is always a bit problematic. She has to withstand vulgar comments from a rowdy group of Year 10 boys and break up a small dispute, all whilst trying to pinpoint Louis in the dense crowd. It should be easy, as he is a senior student and fairly tall… okay, maybe not, but still, he should stand out more than the rest. He is her boyfriend, after all.

The amount of students left in the hall declines at an alarming rate, and Iris wonders if she’s missed him. But then, at the last minute, she spots a pair of familiar blue eyes, and the smile which graces her lips can’t be hid.

His hair is a bit damp as a result of this morning’s rain, and he’s walking in a group with Stan, Adam, and a few other boys from the football team who she can’t remember the names of, chatting animatedly.

Immediately, her mood brightens. That’s him, that’s the boy who, less than 72 hours ago, was in a bed with her, naked and beautiful. Seeing him in such a different environment seems strange, like they’ve been in two separate worlds.

Louis’ eyes meet hers, halting him in his tracks, and he grins widely before slipping away from his friends, hanging back as they file out of the hall, like that’s the obvious thing to do. Careful steps are taken as he approaches, wary not to bring too much attention to the interaction the two will soon share. The last of the students make their exit, and Louis moves forward, lessening the distance between them from ‘teacher to student’ to ‘definitely more than just friends’.

“Hey,” he greets softly, looking at her in complete and utter awe. If Iris was relaxed, she’d probably swoon. But she isn’t.

Instead, she’s on edge, hyperaware of Mrs Collins, the assistant headmistress, who’s stacking chairs at the other end of the hall, and the cleaner who’s mopping the floor not too far away. Louis seem oblivious to it all, his focus narrowed down to just Iris and her lips.

They can’t do this, not now.

“Louis,” she warns, breath catching high in her throat. He ignores this, placing his hands at her waist and slowly leaning in. Iris is panicking, trying to force him out of the compromising position with all the strength she can muster. Attempts are futile, however, because he’s strong and she’s weak, and all Iris can rely on is her words. “Louis, no,” she begs quietly, offering him a pleading look.  

Louis thinks she’s teasing, is failing to see the severity of the situation, and playfully mumbles “Why?” as he crowds further in, his nose brushing against hers. He’s still on whatever high he felt last Thursday, thinking about the sex; how mind-blowing it was to sleep with this girl – the girl he thought he had no chance with. He’s all giggly and smitten, wanting nothing more than to just kiss the life out of her.

“We can’t—“ is all she manages before she’s silenced by his lips, crushing onto hers.

For a short moment, Iris is fairly certain that she’s paralysed; unable to move from the shock of it all.

The reality settles on her. She is currently being kissed by Louis, her student, as Mrs Collins, an assistant headmistress – somebody who’s far more superior than her and could potentially end her career – is present in the room. Which is just— _fuck._ Said impending life-ruiner has either witnessed this happening or will in the next couple of seconds, and all Iris can really do is hope for the fucking best; pray for an insane amount of luck and that her reflexes won’t let her down.

She pushes against his chest, now with the drive and strength to make some sort of difference to him physically, to put an end to it. He stumbles back, cutting the kiss short, and Iris’ heart is racing, the expression on her face showing pure fear. Louis notices, mirroring that fear as he comes back to his senses.

They’ve been caught. Fuck.

Both of them simply stare at each other, wide-eyed and panting. And then they hear the sound which they’ve been dreading; Mrs Collins, clearing her throat to gain their attention.

* * *

 

It’s first period, and Iris is sat in front of her Literature class, a cold mug of tea sitting rather depressingly on her desk as she listens to the students take turns in reading pages from _The Bell Jar_. Usually, she prefers to do all the reading, knowing she can save the kids from having to endure that one classmate who takes years to complete a paragraph. Plus, she uses lots of expression and reads in a clear, even tone, making it easier for the students to engage. But god knows she couldn’t read now. If she tried, she’d probably choke or start having an emotional breakdown for all to see.

She feels sick. Like, _actually_ sick. And it doesn’t help that the chair next to Stan’s in the back left corner, the place Louis always sits, is noticeably empty; a constant reminder of this morning’s happenings.

She’s established that there are two possible ways which Mrs Collins could’ve perceived the situation. Number one, the kiss was entirely unsolicited. Just a horny teenage boy, trying to get with who the teachers already know to be the most attractive member of staff, and even going as far as trying to snog her after assembly. Or, number two, Louis and Iris were too close to _not_ be more than just friends, and something is definitely happening between them behind closed doors.

She doesn’t know which perspective on it Mrs Collins has taken. All she knows is that Louis’ currently at the headmaster’s office, being either scolded or interrogated for one reason or another, and that she’s been ordered to see him too at morning tea break, no further information given.

This is it – she’s going to prison. They’ve probably called in the authorities already, have notified Louis’ parents of the news. Fuck, what’s she going to tell her own mother? What’s she going to tell Marcus? She said she had it under control, that he needn’t worry. Iris may never trust her own judgement again.

Her fingers are trembling, her throat tight and dry as she resists the urge to sob. Her eyes are fixed on her mug of tea, the amber liquid making small waves, splashing against the china edges as her knees involuntarily jerk up into the desk, rattling it. She’s trying to appear normal, give a false impression to the class, but it’s so difficult. She catches herself rubbing her temples, her lip beginning to quiver as a small whimper threatens to escape, and she forces herself to snap out of it, remain composed until the bell.

It’s funny because she feels like she’s under-reacting, if that’s possible, feels like she should be on the floor, curled up in the foetal position as she wallows in her demise as a teacher, the realisation that an isolated, empty jail cell has her name on it. But it doesn’t even seem real. It all just… happened so fast. One minute, she was picking his face out of a crowd, elated to see him. The next, she was walking to her first class with an upset stomach and cold, sweaty palms.

Of course, it hasn’t been confirmed that her and Louis’ relationship has been revealed to the school. There’s still a glimmer of hope, a trust that Louis’ taking full responsibility, pretending that he’s just some sad kid with a crush on his teacher, who had the nerve to go up and kiss her out of the blue (the thought warms her heart, and she can only hope it to be true). So maybe, she should wait until she walks into John’s office and sees a resignation form to start panicking. Then, she could react appropriately, in the way any normal human would.

She glances at Louis’ empty chair once again, imagining how this class would’ve run had this morning not have occurred. She thinks of his furrowed brow, of his cheek resting against his palm; the face he usually makes when he’s trying to concentrate on reading. She can conceive such a clear image in her head, imagine his eyes peeking out from under his fringe, his gaze settling on her as a smile inches its way up his face.

Whatever happens, Iris doesn’t think she could ever get over him.

Three precise twangs of the school bell pull her out of her melancholy state, and she watches her class snap their books shut before filing out the door. It takes an insane amount of effort to make that first movement, lift herself off her chair, but she knows she can’t loiter around or find excuses to ditch her meeting with John, aware that that could add to any growing suspicion.

The entire walk there feels like it’s done on a tightrope, stretched between two skyscrapers over a busy road, without a harness. The admin corridor is packed with teachers returning from the classes, going about their Monday as if it were any other. Iris tries to blend in, but with her stiff, shaky legs and the fact that she’s nearly dropped her folder at least four times, it isn’t exactly easy.

Arriving at the door to John’s office, she discovers it to be closed, and taking a deep breath as one final futile attempt to calm down, she raises her hand, preparing to knock. The doorknob twists from the other end, however, and suddenly Louis’ appearing from behind the door, eyes cast downwards, fingers combing through his hair as he purses his lips into a thin line.

“Hey,” Iris whispers, causing Louis to look up at her. He looks sullen, head hung low. She has to remind herself not to hug him, lace their fingers together like a normal couple. “What happened?”

“I got suspended,” he mumbles dejectedly, already inching away, desperate to distance himself from this corridor and the headmaster who gave him such a harsh punishment.

“You— _what_?” Iris stammers, trying to piece together how that outcome could’ve possibly occurred.

“I got suspended,” he repeats, louder this time, as he takes another step further, clearly not wanting to elaborate on the topic.

“Louis,” she starts, but is soon cut off.

“We’ll talk about it after school, okay? I’ve… I’ve gotta go,” he explains quickly.

Iris is left to watch him walk away, mouth agape with so many unanswered questions. She’s fixated on him, eyes narrowed, and when a voice suddenly approaches from behind, it’s safe to say she’s been startled. Especially when she recognises the owner of that voice.

“Iris, come in and have a seat,” says the headmaster, deceivingly calm. Oh god, John just caught her gazing at Louis like her life fucking depended on it, and that’s certainly not helping their case.

The knowledge that if she refuses, she could be hinting at their secret, is what pushes her through the door. The office is square and clinical; two uncomfortable looking chairs facing a desk. The walls are plastered with awards and pictures relating to the school, and placed in the middle of the desk is a tissue box.

No resignation form, at least. No police constable standing in the corner.                           

As Iris sinks down into her chair, she can hear her heart beating in her ears. She feels like a student, about to be told off for displaying such naughty behaviour. Her breath is caught high in her throat, and she’s feeling an insane amount of guilt and regret for all her actions.

“So,” John starts, clasping his hands together. Iris nearly gasps. “I, uh… I just thought I’d let you know that Mr Tomlinson has been suspended for a day. We, uh, apologise for what, er, happened to you this morning,” _Wait, what?_ “Here at Farleigh Heights we obviously have a zero tolerance policy for any form of sexual harassment, and that includes any unwanted comments or physical contact which makes the victim feel uncomfortable,” _Oh my god I’m not in trouble holy shit_ “Now, uh, we would have considered moving Mr Tomlinson to a different class but unfortunately, as you know, you run the only Literature class for sixth form. We can however, make arrangements for Louis to complete his Literature course by correspondence or at a different venue. Would that be preferable?”

John stares at her expectantly, awaiting a response, while Iris can only look back dumbfounded, her voice unable to work because _what the fuck I thought I was going to prison._ It’s a relief, but there’s still something within her which is refusing to settle.

When she hasn’t replied for a good five seconds, her boss raises an eyebrow, reminding her that she looks a bit like a tosser at the moment, just sitting there speechless.

“Oh, uh, that… that won’t be necessary,” she answers, struggling to hide the smile which is spreading across her face. It’s a little too obvious, but she doesn’t have capacity to care. “It’s fine, really,” she promises John, assuring him that he needn’t worry about any traumatising effects following this morning or the probability of it happening again. It occurs on a regular basis, actually, without John being aware of it. And really, it isn’t traumatising at all, but a total delight.

“Are you sure?” he asks, looking a little unconvinced.

“Yes, positive,” she gushes, already preparing to push herself out of her chair. “I, uh, I have to go meet with the head of English about Year 11 exams, so, if you’ll excuse me,” she mutters quickly, standing up. She’s pretty certain that John has more to say, but she’d rather leave now, fearful of what it might be.

He watches her warily as she makes her exit, and once Iris has closed the door behind her, she immediately cups a hand over her mouth and nose, resisting the urge to sink down onto the floor.

That was far too close for comfort, and that outcome shouldn’t be celebrated, but treated more as a warning sign, a reminder to keep a lid on things. Had Mrs Collins caught them a second earlier, and seen Louis and Iris in the midst of a full-blown kiss, rather than Iris angrily pushing Louis out of one, then that conversation could’ve gone _very_ different.

If anything, it’s making her realise how fragile this is, how cautious she needs to be. They are dancing on a fault line. All it takes is one shift – one move, one glance, one kiss – to ensue complete and utter destruction.

* * *

 

“Are we going to talk about this morning or are we just going to pretend it didn’t happen?” Iris asks, the first time either of them have spoken the entire ride to her flat.

After school, she’d picked him up from their usual place; a street corner near the local Tesco. There, he’d slid into the passenger seat of her car, but this time without his customary kiss hello, just a quick glance in her direction before shifting his eyes to his lap. It’s been unbearable ever since, the only interaction between them being the occasional glance, before one of them, usually Louis, will jerk their eyes away.

Now, Louis’ gaze snaps to her, a scowl present on his lips. He gives no reply.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she mumbles as she makes a turn, irritated. How could he have the audacity to be mad at her, when she was the one who could’ve almost been arrested today?

The silence continues, and Iris anticipates another fifteen minutes of it, until Louis’ mouth opens, indicating words.

“Iris, I… _I got suspended,_ ” he reminds her, as if it changes anything.

“I know you got suspended,” she replies simply, keeping her eyes on the road.

“Well, I mean, it’s… _it’s bullshit_ ,” he complains, looking at her in incredulity, like he can’t believe she’d be so calm and accepting of this matter.

“Louis, you kissed me in front of the deputy headmistress. What did you think would happen?” she sighs, and Louis sinks back into his seat, frowning.

He spends the next minute or so just sitting there with his arms crossed, glaring out the window. “I’m sick of this,” he mutters, running a hand over his forehead tiredly.

“Sick of what?” Iris asks in a small voice, hoping he’ll say that it’s this tension between them that he can’t stand, because god is it killing her. She misses the effortlessly wonderful vibe the two often have together, where they can just kiss and laugh and talk about nothing for an eternity. Now, Iris feels like she could cough and Louis would still glare at her.

“I’m sick of,” he starts, pausing to find the right words “I’m sick of sneaking around. I… I don't want to have this amazing, beautiful girlfriend who I can't tell anyone about. I don't want to have to act like we're strangers when we pass each other in the hallways. I want to hug you in front of my friends and not have them bat an eyelash. I want… _shit,_ I just—“

“Louis,” she interrupts, seeing that he’s struggling. “I understand completely. I mean, some days I want to call you up in the middle of class and just casually make out with you without a care in the world. But, that doesn’t make it okay. We can’t do that. You _know_ we can’t do that.”

“I know, I know,” Louis dismisses, “It’s just… it's hard sometimes to obey the rules when you're there, all pretty and gorgeous and liking me back." he confesses, gaze cast to the ground in embarrassment. "It's hard in class, when... when you look at me like I'm the only one in the room who matters... like we're both in on something the rest of the class isn't. You make me feel special. Different. You make me feel like I'm not just an eighteen year old who's on the brink of failing his A-levels. You— and fuck, it's impossible to not want to kiss you. I want to kiss you all the fucking time. I want people to know that we're a thing. I want... I want to be able to show everyone that you're mine, and that... and that I'm yours.”

She’s trying to focus on the road, drive them to their desired location safely, but it’s difficult when Louis’ there, pouring out his feelings like he has no idea of the effect they’ll have. She pulls over.

“Louis,” she breathes, shutting off the engine. “I... you… _fuck._ ”

And then she surges forward, eliminating the gap between them, pressing her mouth to his with an urgency which makes Louis’ knees go weak, makes him whine against her lips.

He cups her face, draws her in closer, and the two make out in the passenger seat, all hot and heavy and teasingly slow. His hand slips under her skirt, finding her butt, and Iris melts, snuggles herself further into him.

Many cars pass, possibly witnessing the filthy event as they drive by, but it’s no major concern. And when they pull away with red lips and lack of breath, they laugh before cuddling up close, Iris settling into the comfort of her boyfriend’s arms.

“Missed having you like that,” Louis comments, kissing the top of her head. She hums in agreement, letting her eyes droop shut. “Makes me mad that we won’t get to do this again on Thursday, since I’ve got that stupid suspension.”

“Are we still talking about that?” Iris perks up, a little annoyed by Louis’ refusal to drop the subject.

He sighs, saying, “Well, it does kinda suck that I have to take this punishment. I mean, _I_ never really did anything wrong.”

“Wait, are… are you saying that I’m in the wrong here, that it’s all my fault?” she says, words gaining venom. “Because if you are, then—“

“No, that’s _not_ what I meant,” he promises quickly, huffing.

“Even so, have you forgotten that I’m putting my whole career, my whole future, basically my whole life in jeopardy, just so we can be together? Fuck, if you can’t deal with a little note in your records saying you once got a suspension, while I’m over here fearful that I’m going to be taken to gaol at any second, then… I can’t even finish that sentence, Louis. Be grateful that it was a suspension and not police cars turning up at the front of the school, yeah?”

He looks to his feet in deep thought, brow creased together. “Fine,” he mutters, voice bitter, and Iris takes that as her cue to scoot back over to her seat and reignite the engine, get back on the road. She doesn’t, however, continue the route they were travelling on initially, and instead turns back the way they came, confusing Louis.

“Aren’t we going to yours?” he asks.

“No, I’m dropping you back home,” she explains, pushing her foot on the accelerator.

“Why?” he mumbles, genuinely upset.

“Because I just… I just can’t right now, Louis. I don’t have the energy. Like you said, I’m sick of sneaking around.”

No further words are exchanged, and they sit in the same silence as before, all the way to the start of Louis’ street.

Once the car’s come to a park he kisses her on the cheek goodbye, leaving tingles under her skin. With one final glance he exits the car, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, Iris watches him leave.

* * *

 

**about to call you. Go somewhere private ;)**

Iris stares down at the text, wondering when exactly it became okay for Louis to send her things like this, especially when she’s in the middle of the school day, trying to appear professional. She nevertheless obeys, however, because it’s the first time he’s contacted her since Monday, and although she hates to admit it, she misses him dearly.

In terms of a private location, the only place which comes to mind is a small staff toilet which nobody uses, just a minute’s walk from where she currently is now. The second she’s in there, locking herself in a toilet cubical, her phone vibrates.

“Hey,” she greets softly, sitting herself on the closed toilet seat lid, crossing her legs and trying to find a comfy position.

“Hey baby, how are you?” Louis says back, voice low. There’s a weird noise in the background, which Iris guesses to be the TV or something or other.

“I’m good,” she replies, smiling at how good it is to speak with him again, hear his voice.

“That’s good,” he says, and Iris may be imagining it, but it seems like every word he says is moaned, all sultry and smooth.

“So, how are you spending your day off?” she asks, casually picking at her nails.

“Well, I’m home alone, on my bed, talking to you. What do you think I’m doing?” he asks, followed by a shaky exhale which confirms it.

“Oh,” Iris says, catching on. Suddenly, the winking face in his text and the strange noises in the background make sense. “Is that why you called me?”

“Mhm,” Louis answers, his breathing harsh and uneven. God, she can just imagine him right now; naked and lying across his bed, one hand wrapped around his hard cock, pumping up and down, the other holding the phone to his ear, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I even made sure to call when I knew you wouldn’t be teaching a class, I’m just that considerate.”

“Oh, you are _very_ considerate,” Iris agrees, trying not to think about how much this is actually turning her on. She bites into her lip.

Louis sounds a low moan, a quiet whimper as he picks up a rhythm, slow jerks of his cock. There’s a pause, and then, “What are you wearing?”

Iris laughs, saying, “I can assure you that it’s no different to what I wear every other day, and it’s really not that sexy.”

“Tell me, baby,” Louis insists, breath becoming even more laboured, and just… fuck. If she weren’t currently at work (because, you know, ethics and that), she’d be touching herself too, without a doubt.

“Okay, um, I’m wearing tights—“

Iris is interrupted by another moan, a quiet whisper of ‘fuck’.

“A skirt,” she continues her list, stifling a giggle.

“Which one?” Louis cuts in to ask.

“Why do you care?” she scoffs, lifting her feet off the floor, and pushing them against the cubical door.

“I’m trying to construct a clear image in my head of you, if you don’t mind,” he fires back, and alright. Fair point.

“Okay, well, I’m wearing the black one with the pleats,” she informs him, playing with the fabric of it at her waistband. She tries to resist the urge to dip her fingers under.

“Oh, I love that one,” he says excitedly, which is a little weird.

“Since when did you start having opinions on my clothing?” she asks.

“Babe, I only like that one because it’s flimsy and on windy days it flies up all the time,” he explains.

“It does?” she asks, wrinkling her nose as she thinks of all the times she’s worn this skirt in the past, and who could’ve potentially seen it flare up above her legs. It disgusts her to think that a certain biology teacher is in that category.

“Oh yeah,” Louis answers, “Fuck, before I saw you naked last week, mental images of you in that skirt made up pretty much all of my wank bank.”

“Oh god,” Iris groans, trying not to laugh. She can practically hear Louis’ smirk.

“ _Shit,_ ” he gasps, suddenly serious. “Oh god, I’m so close,” he whines, and she can hear him picking up his pace, pumping faster and faster.

“Louis,” she moans softly, trying to coax him along. He whimpers in response, and the heat between her thighs is becoming so prominent, it almost hurts to ignore it.   

“Fuck, _Iris_ ,” he mewls, and she can tell by the noises he’s making that he’s there, coming with a shout. He’s so loud that she has to muffle the speaker, worried that someone might overhear. It’s then that she realises how filthy this is; Iris locked up in a bathroom, listening to Louis cum.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, recovering from his high. A few more panting breaths, and then, “Okay love, I’ve got to go now. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” he says cheerily, like he wasn’t just masturbating a second earlier.

“Do I at least get a thank you?” Iris whines, feeling used.   

“Thank you so much, baby, for helping me get off just now. I’m gonna go clean myself up and eat some leftover KFC. Goodbye!”

The line cuts dead, and Iris is left smiling helplessly at her phone, a bit winded. He’s such a fucking tease.

It might still be taking Iris a while to come to terms with Monday’s events, and she might still be a bit wary of everything they do. But for now, their relationship is perfect; strong and sturdy, the two of them growing more comfortable with each other by the day, as just demonstrated.  

Yeah, they’re fine.


	14. Chapter 14

It starts at a sixth form assembly the following week; a type of gathering which Iris isn’t as reluctant to attend. It’s smaller, ensues less havoc, and holds the definite promise of seeing Louis, her boyfriend, seated amongst all the other students.

They’re in the theatre, listening to various announcements as a clock ticks by, counting down to first period. She’s already spotted Louis at the aisle seat in the back row, slouched with his mates and paying minimal attention to the presentation. They’ve just exchanged their routine glance hello, where he gave a wink which managed to somehow redden her cheeks. This is later followed up by a disruption of the assembly in the form of Louis chatting loudly with his mates, and it surely must be deliberate; an invitation for her to walk over there and ‘tell him off’.

When she does, leaning over his chair to whisper a scolding, all with the added audience of Louis’ mates, he spends the entire reprimand biting his lower lip, eyes panning up and down her petite figure, ravenous.

It makes her feel small, makes her question if she’s the one in authority here, or if Louis’ in charge; the one calling the shots. And once his friends’ focus has been steered away and Iris prepares to leave, she feels Louis’ fingertips dragging down her thigh, concealed by the looming darkness of the theatre, before his hand quickly yet quietly slaps her butt, sending her off. It’s hot, but also dangerous – leaving bursts of adrenalin to spread through her – and when she looks back at him a minute later, finding a smirk resting on his face, he flicks his chin up as he notices her staring, and Iris would really like to just forget about the presence of everybody else, march back over there and give him a lap dance.

It’s so not fair, having to restrain herself like this. After the close call they had last week, which resulted in a near mental breakdown and a suspension, you’d expect that it would be enough to scare her away from doing anything scandalous. But there’s still a hint of daredevil in her, pushing her to outstretch the boundaries, get away with more than she should.

Romantic interactions during school hours have decreased significantly, though. There’s still the glances and the winks and the touches, as just demonstrated. Even a cheeky comment if it’s the right place and time. But no more kisses in storage cupboards, even if they’re both certain that nobody’s lurking in the vicinity. It’s too compromising, if someone were to discover them like that, and Iris is sure that they used up whatever ridiculous amount of luck the universe allowed them the last time that happened.

It is in a sense good, this strict policy which prevents Louis’ lips going anywhere near hers during school hours. It creates a yearning for it, a desire so large that she wonders how they can possibly contain it. And so when Iris finally gathered the courage to bring him back to her flat earlier this week, all that energy had been released in a well overdue kiss, Louis’ hands reaching out to map her body, desperately reacquainting himself with all he’s been longing to touch the past few days.

It’s nice, what they have going on, and as Louis gives her one last flirtatious smile before returning his eyes to the front of the theatre, it’s hard not to think of all the ways she’s going to make him pay for this later, when they’re alone and naked and atop a mattress.

Then the careers counsellor steps out on stage, reminding the students that university preferences are due in the upcoming weeks, and Iris’ gaze flickers between Louis’ face – his expression now turned to one of boredom – and Mrs Jenkins, the careers counsellor, remembering when she was in this position all those years ago; studying for her A-level exams and attending all sorts of university open days. The long awaited ‘future’ that years of schooling had prepared her for sitting just around the corner.

And then it really fucking hits her.

University. Applications. Next September. _Shit._

How could this have slipped her mind? How could she not of realised – _remembered_? Louis isn’t going to be in sixth form forever. There’s more after this, more which she should’ve thought about the moment she decided to get involved with this boy.

But the most shocking of all is the realisation which follows directly after, which stops her in her tracks and turns her numb.

Iris is settled. A settled, mature (ha), adult, with a degree and a career and a flat containing a domestic animal. She has a close circle of friends here in Manchester, lives only about an hour’s drive from her parents. And nothing is pressuring for her to change this.

Sure, she could if she wanted to. She could hop online tonight and start impulsively browsing ads for flatmates in London or flight prices to Glasgow. Paris, even.

But she won’t. Because she’s settled.

Louis, however, isn’t. Instead he has the world at his feet, opportunities waiting at every corner, so many options and paths to choose from. He could go to uni. He could take a gap year. Most people nowadays don’t opt to stay in their hometown for the rest of their lives, especially when they’re on the brink of adulthood. God knows she didn’t.

And it’s not like Iris is holding Louis down or anything. He could leave if he wanted to, just like she could. As simple as a university application to a campus in Cardiff or London or anywhere else where regular visits aren’t so easily manageable.

As simple as a train ticket and an ad for a flatmate.

Iris feels like she knows that fact too well.

It’s so big, the possibility of what could happen once Louis finishes his A-Levels, that Iris feels like it’s been brewing in the depths of her mind since the beginning – although she subconsciously chose to ignore it. She wonders if it may have contributed to her initial reluctance to start a relationship with him, along with all the other obvious reasons.

Iris wants to cry, wants to scream, because every week it seems, a new complication surfaces, making it more and more susceptible that their relationship is well and truly doomed; more difficult to remain optimistic.

She doesn’t like to think about it, and instead would prefer to pretend that nothing’s wrong. A bit like Moss with the fire in that episode of The IT Crowd. But now that it’s right in her face and seemingly closer than ever, Louis’ final exams less than five months away, she’s having trouble discarding it.

There’s going to be a discussion. A discussion, closer to Louis’ graduation day, which Iris doesn’t think she could ever mentally prepare herself for.

And she’s sure that with all this pessimistic pondering she looks like a sullen piece of shit right now, can only hope that Louis won’t turn to give her another one of his seductive glances, and then be shocked to discover her looking like she’s about to empty the contents of her stomach.

Her mind is clouded, everything merging into a blur; the final stress from Mrs Jenkins to get your application in, the collective annoyance from the students when they discover there’s still one more announcement before they’re dismissed. She can barely register the first few words of the headmistress’ sentence.

“…parent’s evening will be on the 18th, and a reminder e-mail will be sent to all your families.”

At first, she sees nothing wrong with this, as if that last reminder has desensitised her from any further shocks. But this one kicks in soon enough – a second, merciless blow to the chest.

Parent’s evening. The night where she’s to be introduced to all her student’s parents and discuss their progress for the semester. Two of those parents may include Louis’ mother and step-father. Absolutely perfect.

What’s she going to say to them? How’s she going to interact with them like a normal human being when she’s dating their son without their knowledge? How’s she going to respond to his mother’s questions of Louis and his progress, when all she’ll be thinking is _oh, funny thing you should bring up Louis – I, uh, rode his cock last week._

It’s just not going to run smoothly. Iris is going to be panicked leading up to it, and when the time comes, she’ll probably choke and mutter incoherent nonsense, make his parents question the school’s decision to hire such an odd and clumsy teacher.

With so many things to stress over, she needs some form of prioritising, and _this_ should be her biggest concern right now – how to make it through a ten minute conversation with Louis’ parents without looking like a complete twat or accidently revealing her relationship with their son.

As for the realisation of Louis’ almost inevitable departure once he’s finished school, it can be filed away, stuffed back in the obscure corner of her brain which it surfaced from in the first place. She’ll cross that bridge when she gets to it.

And sure, maybe Iris is dreading that with every cell in her body, might be considering turning back the other way before she even reaches the river, but… Louis doesn’t have to know. For now, at least.

* * *

 

“It’ll be fine,” Louis reassures her for what must be the fifth time this evening, the fingers he’s got combing through her hair doing absolutely nothing to soothe her.

It’s unusual. This should be her safe haven, the place where no worries or doubts can creep up on her, the place where everything’s okay. Sprawled across the sofa, wrapped up in Louis’ arms with a blanket draped over them, Florence curled up at their feet, her silky fur brushing against her toes as she breathes steadily. Bake Off is on the tele, the only reality programme which Iris allows herself to indulge in (“Look at them, they’re all so nice to each other! Look, they’re even sharing ovens. How could you not love this show?”, she’d said to Louis one evening), and on the coffee table sits a glass of wine next to Louis’ beer. The sounds of Manchester’s Sunday evening fill the space outside her flat, all peaceful and rhythmic, moving seamlessly together like clockwork.

And yet Iris can’t shake the absolute terror she’s feeling towards meeting Louis’ parents next week.

After his attempted reassurance, Iris stares at Louis like he’s stupid, not wasting her breath on a reply. What does he know? He’s never been in this situation before, never had to meet the parents of a student he’s fucking. This is completely insane.

“Can you…” she starts, twisting around to face him fully, “Can you maybe convince your parents not to come? Like, tell them that everything’s fine and there’s no point in meeting me?” she asks, entirely serious.

“Well, firstly, it’s just my mum that’ll go. Dad’s probably working and even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t feel the need to be there anyway,” he says, and although it does ease the pressure a bit, Iris still feels butterflies in her stomach. A girlfriend meeting her boyfriend’s mother can be as daunting as her boyfriend meeting her father. Although Mrs Tomlinson will (hopefully) never suspect that the girl she’s sitting across from is in a relationship with her son, Iris can’t deny the nerves coursing through her, making her feel all dizzy and terrified and like she’s going to faint. “And secondly, she’s already seen my grades. She knows how much I struggle with Lit, especially since last year, and… she really wants to meet you. It’ll be fine, Iris.” The last bit is added when he notices her look of utter fear.

“No it won’t,” she mumbles back without a second thought, glancing at the floor.

“What are you so afraid of?” he asks, laughing a little at her ridiculousness, reaching arms out to hold her in place, as if worried she might topple over the ledge of the couch after all this moping. And Iris nearly yells at him. About how he doesn’t understand. About how he could never understand. “She’s going to love you. I know she will. You’re the best teacher I’ve ever had,” he says, so incredibly sweet that Iris can’t think of a single reason why she should deserve him.

“You’re just saying that because I’m fucking you,” she replies, deciding to instead concentrate on Mary Berry and Paul Hollywood as they taste a contestant’s Yule log, gushing about how moist and divine it is.

“No,” Louis says, cupping her cheeks and forcing her to stare back at him. “No I’m not.”

And it’s the first time she’s really looked at him – like, _proper_ looked at him – in what seems like a long time. Maybe even dating back to hotel rooms and heartbeats and bare skin, to watching the soft light settle across his face, turning his hair silver.

He’s just this impossibly beautiful being that has torn his way into her life and made himself a home. Who makes her laugh, then makes her want to tear her hair out, and yet still leaves her wishing for more. Yeah, sure, Harry was nice. Even Andrew at one point was nice. They were _all_ nice… but.

Nothing can really compare to this boy. This man. This person who’s just… everything she could ever dream of, staring back at her with care in his eyes – so unimaginably blue, those eyes.

 _You’re leaving me_ , says a voice, emerging from a place which she thought she’d gagged hours ago, speaking right into those irises, right to his very core. It nearly makes her gasp, pull back, run straight to her bedroom and slam the door behind her.

Now’s not the time to dwell on _that_ unavoidable problem, the one that’s frightening her to bits, when there’s a more imminent one at stake. So, _Fuck off_ , she replies to that voice, willing herself to keep composure as Louis moves closer, and his soft lips meet the skin of her cheek, her nose, her forehead.

“You’ll be fine,” he seems to mutter between kisses, and Iris closes her eyes, breathes him in, and allows herself to believe it for just a moment, if only. For his sake.

“Promise me you’ll come too?” she finds herself asking before the thought has finished forming in her head. Like a reflex action, not even consulting the higher bodies of her brain.

It’s a little stupid; something only her drunk self would conjure up. Louis accompanying his mother to the interview, sitting beside her as Iris attempts to give a good impression. He’d probably do something ridiculous like ruffle his hair or smile at one of her lame excuses for icebreakers or make some joke about his poor results, and Iris wouldn’t have any choice but to look at him like he’s the sun; all smiles and red cheeks and giving away every secret the two have so desperately tried to keep from his mother. It’ll be like suicide.

But she feels like it could be easier if he were in the room. Feels like he could remove some of the pressure by initiating conversation, steeping in when she loses her footing, kicking his foot into hers under the desk in reassurance. If he begins an act that the two are friends and nothing more, Iris will no doubt follow along with it, and all will be well.

“Are you sure?” he asks, tilting his head like a confused animal.

She nods, confirming it with a quick kiss on his lips. “I think I’ll need you there for moral support. I mean, as long as you behave, of course.”

“Oh, I’ll behave,” he purrs, his hands suddenly on her hips, pushing them down onto his until she can feel every crevice and ridge.

“Louis!” she squeaks, not at all expecting that, and tries to push herself off and away. But Louis’ got an iron tight grip on her, and all her action achieves is making their hips grind together, the friction too good to ignore and the space between them non-existent. Florence, having been awakened by Iris’ outburst, leaps off the couch and stalks into another room, as if she knows exactly what those shifts and sounds mean and what’s likely to occur in the next coming minutes.

Her cat could almost be considered psychic, because half an hour later they’re naked and exhausted and cuddling under the blankets, the post-orgasm haze inducing them to mutter nonsense as they drift asleep.

* * *

 

Right. Parent’s evening; the night which some parents fuss over, eager to meet the people who have taken their child’s education into their hands, or the night which some parents couldn’t give any less of a toss about.

Her own mother had cared a lot about them, anxious to make sure that her Iris had all the resources to do her best and top the rest of her class (“No pressure, darling”). Her father had been the opposite, turned off by the expensive Harrogate private school she attended, with its Latin motto, medieval school crest and website filled with pictures of students playing the cello or on a school trip to Germany (“Why are we bothering to send her there? It’s a bloody waste of money”).

Now, as a teacher, Iris can’t help but adopt her father’s opinion. It’s tedious, requires too much effort, and is all together a waste of time. If she had any genuine concerns about a kid and wished to speak with their parents, it could always be done through a phone call or a meeting scheduled some other time in the year. Then, she wouldn’t have to sacrifice an entire evening to awkward conversations and pretentious parents like her mother, who push their kids to be the absolute best.

She’s only ever had to do one parent’s evening before, this one at Kingsley Grammar, and as she pulls up into the carpark she begins to recall it.

It was an uncomfortable night, she can remember, as she’d only been teaching there a week, and hadn’t any solid information she could give the parents about their kid’s performance.

 _This time will be better,_ she assures herself, looking at the school sign. Farleigh Heights Comprehensive. Right, a comprehensive school, or in other words not a private school, meaning far less over-enthusiastic parents. It should be easy.

Except that Mrs Tomlinson is going to be there.

Taking a swig from her water bottle, she suddenly wishes she’d spiked it with vodka. Why did she do this? Why didn’t she call in sick? Hell, why did she take this goddamn job anyway?

She begins some deep breathing exercises, forcing herself to think of kittens and Jammy Dodgers and Louis’ smile. All the good things in the world.

_Inhale. Exhale. Repeat._

Once stepping out of her car starts to seem less and less like an impossible feat, she does just that, and finds that her legs aren’t as shaky as she thought they’d be. Good.

It’s okay for the first half of the evening. She’s placed in her own classroom, where she can snack on crisps and check her phone between meetings without anyone glancing over. All the parents she meets are fairly normal, and no conversation has her itching to bolt out of the room.

As the night progresses, however, each tick of the clock becomes more pronounced, and her eyes keep darting to her list, telling her that Mrs Tomlinson’s meeting is in half and hours’ time. Great, she just had to have booked the last slot of the evening, making everything seem like it’s leading up to it. A final boss battle.

She’s having quite a pleasant chat with the mother of Bronte, one of the girls in her Lit class, while Bronte sits impatiently to the side, clearly desperate to return home. Noticing her daughter’s distress, Mrs Coleman takes an obvious glance at her watch and politely ends the meeting there, sending Iris into an almost critical state because _holy fuck you can’t be leaving yet. If you leave, then that means Louis and his mum are next, and they’re probably walking over right now and that is certainly not something I can—_

And there they are, standing in the doorway. Louis, dressed in his woollen winter attire, managing to look absolutely adorable without even trying, next to a woman with long brown hair, a kind face and the same eyes as her son.

She’s not sure what she hates most; the fact that this is actually happening, the way Bronte looks at Louis as she exits the room, or the way Louis’ looking at Iris, all blue eyes and pink cheeks and careful smiles. She doesn’t recall signing up for this.

“Hi,” begins his mother as they approach. “I’m Johannah,” she says, extending a hand.

“Iris,” she replies, shooting up and out of her chair at a pace which really isn’t helping her relaxed and professional vibe. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“You too,” Johannah says as they all take their seats. “Is this the one you kissed?” she makes an obvious aside to Louis, causing Iris to pause her organising of her marking book and peer up at the pair, frozen in shock.

Right, the kiss which got him suspended. Although Louis promised not to tell his friends about what happened that one morning and why he was absent the following day, the details of his suspension would’ve surely reached his mother. Nothing to panic about.

“Mum,” Louis groans quietly in embarrassment, the pinkness creeping up his cheeks most likely real, just from the feeling of being in the same room as his mother and his secret girlfriend. Johannah simply laughs – a warm woman's laugh – as she looks at Iris like it’s a joke. Iris giggles too, because it is quite funny, and a humiliated Louis is definitely a sight she likes to see.

“Yes, um, I guess Louis did have a bit of a schoolboy crush on me,” she mentions with a smile, reaching for her notes. “But he’s over that now,” she says, as if it’s a good thing.

From underneath the table, she feels Louis’ foot softly prod against hers. His own secret greeting, his own way of replying ‘like hell I’m not’.

“Oh I’d like to think so,” Johannah adds finally before settling further in her chair, ready to listen to Iris’ advice regarding Louis’ less than desirable performance in Literature so far.

“So,” Iris begins, pulling forth her marking book and flicking through to the correct page. “Louis’ grades so far have been a D, a D+, and another D,” she informs her in a slow, dragged out voice, emphasising the problem.

“Right,” Johannah says, now serious and bearing a face full of concern.

“And, well,” Iris says, pausing to move some hair out of her face, “I’ve noticed that what really lets him down is his organisation, or lack thereof, and his time management skills. In almost every unit we’ve done, he’s um, he’s never finished the reading on time, and what happens is he’ll always be a bit behind the rest of the class. Sometimes he won’t have even read the book by the time we’re doing the assessment task, and so he’ll go into it not knowing the text half as well as he could’ve if he’d put in more effort.”

“Right,” Johannah says again, glancing at her son in worry. Louis doesn’t pay much attention, as he’s heard this speech countless times from Iris already, and so has instead opted to cross his arms and lounge back in his chair, bored.

“And, I’d hate to alarm you, but going into A-Level exams, not knowing the text is probably the thing that you’d least want,” Iris adds, holding Louis’ gaze firmly. A slight smile inches up his face at her attempt to be stern, and Iris kicks his leg, pulling him out of that casually careless posture and making him sit up straight. Bastard.

“Okay, so, what do you suggest we do?” Johannah asks, pulling her chair closer, knitting her brow.

“Well, months ago he did come along to tutoring after school,” Iris says, voice beginning to fade as she remembers what happened during those sessions and what caused them to come to an end; why it’s a topic she should’ve avoided.

“Yes, I remember Louis going to that,” Johannah says, nodding.

“Yeah, um, sorry but I can’t for the life of me remember why we stopped those,” _We ended up sucking each other’s faces off in your basement,_ “But that’s an option. I mean, I’m always happy to give extra help to any students who I feel need it.

“And the other thing which I encourage Louis to do, aside from reading the goddamn book,” this yields a smile from both of them, “is to talk about it with his classmates, and to not only pay lots of attention to, but contribute more to class discussions.”

“Okay,” Johannah says, as Louis slouches back in his chair and stretches his arms above his head in boredom. The action causes the bottom hem of his jumper to lift up, exposing that wondrously tan stretch of stomach which Iris loves so much, the one she was so eager to kiss and slide her hands all over. She catches herself staring at the scene intently, but then Louis winks at her, so she glances away in a heartbeat. “And how about his behaviour in class? Is that all okay?” Johannah asks, steering her back to focus.

“Well, Louis’… Louis. I’m sure you’ve heard it all before. He’s very chatty, but… he’s fine, really. Not overly distracting to anyone else.”

“Great,” Johannah replies with surprise, clearly not used to that sort of feedback. And she can imagine why, too. Louis must be absolute hell in all his other classes, when there’s not an older, attractive teacher whom he’s fucking to keep him in line. “Um, Louis, you didn’t want to add anything else, did you?”

“Hmm? No,” Louis mumbles, voice raspy as he completes another stretch, and it’s almost the first time he’s spoken all night. His foot finds hers underneath the table again, gently nudging, and Iris pushes back, wishing they were doing this at morning time, naked and abed following a lovely night of intense intimacy. A sleepy smile rests on Louis’ face, and Iris almost can’t bear it any longer.

“Right, so I guess we should be heading off. Lovely to meet you,” Johannah says, and all three of them rise from their seats.

“You as well,” Iris replies sweetly, a smile on her lips to force down the exhaustion which is surfacing. An entire evening full of these pleasant little chats, and Iris finds the words almost robotic. “See ya.”

“See ya,” she parrots back, and after Louis’ waved a quick goodbye, the two move towards the exit. Iris can tell from the look on Johannah’s face that the meeting had gone unexpectedly well for her. Usually, she must have to endure speeches on her son’s terrible attention span, the fact that he distracts the whole class. She turns to her son and says “I’ve just got one last meeting with Lottie’s maths teacher, so do you want to go wait out by the car?”

Louis nods, then inclines his head back to Iris, who’s in the midst of packing up all her notes for the night. It’s a silent invitation for her to wait for him, so he can return to her after deceiving his mother into thinking he’s at the car. They’ll pounce on any alone time they can get, honestly.

A few moments later and Louis’ back at the doorway giving her an affectionate smile, acting with far less restraint than before.

“Oh god, that was terrible,” Iris gushes, finally able to breathe, as she collapses her face into her palms. Her heartrate still hasn’t managed to calm down, and the idea of throwing herself off a ledge is starting to seem like a good one.

“What are you talking about, darling?” Louis asks softly, all care and concern, his footsteps growing louder as he approaches. When she lifts up her eyes, he’s seated himself on her desk, legs dangling off the edge, facing her. “You did so well,” he promises, grabbing her hands, intertwining their fingers and gazing at her with the softest intent. God, could he please stop being the prettiest thing to walk this planet? For a moment, at least.

“Shut up,” she says, dismissing the notion that this evening was anything short of a disaster.

“I’m being serious,” he assures her, a grin tugging at his lips as he reaches forward to play with her hair. “I mean, you didn’t drool over me, you kept your clothes on, and you didn’t even lean across the chair and make out with me. Not even once!” he reminds her, clearly taking the piss.

“What’s your point with this?” Iris asks, not in the mood to be mocked.

“My point,” he begins, his hands reaching down to scoop her up from beneath, place her in his lap, “is that you worry too much. It was fine. Nothing bad happened. Nothing bad was _ever_ going to happen.”

Just like that, the haze begins to disappear, and Iris suddenly can’t think of a single reason why tonight failed so tragically. Sure, it may have been nerve-racking, and that’s what has her so worked up. But did Johannah leave tonight with a grimace on her face, or a promise that she’d never let her son attend one of Iris’ classes again? No. In fact she looked quite content.

Damn him, always being right.

“Yes, but it was stressful,” Iris whines, skilfully changing the subject and offering him the most pleading of glances.

“Hey, it was stressful for me too,” he argues playfully, his hands finding solace on her hips, pulling her close. “All that talk about A-Level exams, reminding me that they’re an _actual thing_ which I’ve got to do.”

“Shut up, you’ll do fine,” Iris says, the feel of his touch becoming the perfect excuse to start leaning in. She pauses there, inches from his mouth, considering that last statement. “With maybe a little… maybe _a lot_ of work.”

“Hmm, I doubt even that,” Louis mumbles before making that final movement, entwining them. He moans something incoherent into the kiss, maybe out of relief to finally be doing this after so much time with a desk placed between them. Iris is about to lose herself, give in to him fully, but it all comes screaming back to her; what this means, sitting in a classroom, talking about A-Level exams, talking about _the future._

All of a sudden, Iris feels violently ill.

His moan turns into a questioning whine as she pushes him away, his eyes still showing hunger and lust and all the things Iris would otherwise love to see.

“Iris,” he laughs, “darling, come ‘ere—“

The words come out stupidly, sound out of place in the sinful mood they’d just created, and Iris regrets them in an instant.

“What are you planning to do once you leave school?”

“Oh,” Louis says, looking at her with question, unable to work out what could’ve prompted _that_ , of all things. “Ah…”

“I mean, do you really _need_ to get good grades? What do you even want to do?”

Iris would really appreciate it if someone clamped a hand over her mouth, because this is devastatingly awkward, and her self-control seems to have flown out the window.

“Um… wow, aha,” he laughs, relaxing his hold on her hips, “Just lay it all on me, why don’t you?”

And, no, what Iris _really_ appreciates is Louis, she’s realising – how he never makes her feel embarrassed, turns anything awkward into something fun. She smiles, makes a small sound in her throat, coaxing his answer.

“Well, I haven’t really thought much about it, to be honest,” he admits, showing next to no regret.

“Hmm, I’m not even surprised,” Iris says “You are the spontaneous type.”

“Actually,” he perks up “that’s not entirely true. I have done some thinking.”

“Yeah?” Iris prods, feeling her heart race in her chest.

“Yeah, um,” he says, eyes favouring the ground. She’s actually relieved that he can’t see her face right now, because it’s bursting with anticipation – too much anticipation for what is normally expected of an answer.

 _What are you even hoping he’ll say_ , a voice asks. _That he plans on spending his days lounging around in your flat and being your personal sex slave? Be realistic. He must have hopes, dreams – ambitions. Probably more than you._

“I’ve looked at this acting school in Barnsley,” he says, and Iris’ mind jumps into a quick geographical calculation, evaluating where that is and how far she’d have to travel. “And, um, I’ve looked at courses to become a drama teacher.”

“A teacher, hey?” Iris asks, liking that idea quite a bit, actually.

“Yeah, aha,” Louis says with nervous laughter, “That idea might’ve been slightly inspired off you.”

Oh, Iris isn’t going to deny that she loves that idea even more. Louis in class, watching her teach, thinking he could do that someday. Anything which involves Louis’ attention solely focused on her is something she likes.

“So, yeah, I’ve been looking at Birmingham, Leeds, Sheffield,” he begins to list, as if that’s totally fine.

Any trace of a smile is wiped off her face, and Iris immediately regrets ever bringing this topic up. Her brain is practically screaming, her heart sinking before it starts to pound rapidly, starts to fill her up with dread.

This is exactly what she didn’t want to hear, what she didn’t want to think about. Louis in some far off university, shagging girls and going to toga parties and breaking drinking records and forgetting about her.

But she bought this on herself, asking that stupid question, and now Iris’ night is ruined. She’ll drive home thinking about it, go to sleep thinking about it. Probably wake up with his words still in mind, plaguing her. He’s leaving, and…fuck, she knows that, but…

Although he’s trying to hide it, his face brightens when he thinks and speaks about it – this future he’s always dreamed of. God, he probably can’t wait for it. He’s probably sick of high school, sick of Literature, ready to move on.

“I mean, it’s just a possibility right now, but—“

“—Please come back.”

This is the moment when Iris seriously considers sticking tape over her mouth, because words just keep flowing out when they’re not allowed to, changing the way Louis’ looking at her, making him furrow his brow.

“Iris, what do you mean ‘come back’,” he asks, hands cupping her face, thumbs dragging over her skin, analysing her. He’s so close, she can feel his breath brush against her cheek, but Iris wonders for how much longer. How much longer until he’s not there, and Iris stops setting the table for two, stops waking up in his warmth.

“I mean,” she begins, swallowing, “come back to Manchester, when you’ve finished uni. Don’t… don’t leave me for good.”

She’s trying to hide the fact that there’s a lump in her throat, and that each word fights to make it past, and that there’s hot, stinging tears assembling, on the verge of making themselves known. But Louis’ looking at her like he sees this, sees how badly it’s affecting her, and draws her closer, pushing her face into the base of his neck. Iris holds onto him for dear life.

“Oh darling, nothing’s set in stone yet,” he mutters, a tinge of laughter in his tone, surprised that this would be such a big deal to her – especially now, when graduation is months away. “I’m not leaving you,” he says, but Iris knows it isn’t a promise. It can’t be. He said it himself – nothing’s set in stone. But for this second, she wills herself to think it, to be lulled into false security. “I’m not,” he repeats, now pulling away to look at her.

Iris is glad that the tears have subsided by this point, because she’s not sure she’s ready to be that vulnerable in front of him, or that she wants him to feel pressured to do something about it. Instead, she gives the firmest nod she can manage, her nose brushing against his due to their unbroken proximity. He cracks the smallest of smiles at that, lips twitching, and then he kisses her – slow and dragging, catching each noise she makes on the tip of his tongue.

He’s suddenly everywhere: hands and hips and mouth, and Iris feels grateful – grateful that’s she’s drowning in a pool of Louis, that she has that to think about.

“Mmm, I missed this,” he sighs in between, his hands determined to bring their hips even closer, eliminate any iota of space. Her reply is lost somewhere between Louis’ tongue and the feel of his fingers smoothing against her skin, mapping her. “You know what else I miss?” he leans back to ask, an audacious grin stretching across his lips, and Iris doesn’t even have to ask.

“No,” she answers flatly, not in reply to his question, but more the filthy suggestion behind it. “Don’t even think about it.”

“There’s always the storage cupboard if you’re concerned about the place—“

“I said no,” Iris reminds him, although her mind is reeling with images of the two of them, sweating in the darkness, clutching shelves.

He sighs in defeat, looking to the floor. It’s not often that she refuses him, but this time it’s so risky that it’s laughable. There are teachers, parents and students milling about, and discovery isn’t as improbable as it may seem. They’re not invincible, they’ve certainly learnt that.

“Right,” he breathes, “I, uh, better be going then. Mum’s probably waiting.”

They detach themselves, flattening down their clothes and ensuring their hair looks presentable. Iris is in the middle of adjusting the hem of her skirt when there’s a knock against the doorway, and she nearly yanks the material downwards, she’s that startled.

It’s a woman she’s never seen before, looks like a mother, teetering on the edge of the room for politeness. Iris completes a quick assessment of the situation: unless this is the mother of one of Louis’ friends, a mother who’ll recognise him, there’s no real threat, and judging by Louis’ composure, Iris deems her to be safe.

“Hi,” Iris says to the woman, a bit out of breath. “Can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m, uh, Lorraine. Oscar’s mum.” Oscar is in her History class, two years below Louis. It’s fine. “I didn’t book, but I was hoping if I could squeeze in an interview, if you’re not busy,” she says, the last part directed at the sight she’s seeing – Louis, standing awfully close.

“Oh, no that’s fine,” Iris says quickly, “Uh, my boyfriend is just here to pick me up, but— darling, could you wait by the car?”

Louis catches onto her skit, nodding. It’s believable, she thinks, because with cheekbones as defined as his, Louis can easily pass as the boyfriend of a fairly young teacher like Iris. He looks like he could be twenty-two, honestly. Iris loves that about him.

“I’ll meet you in a couple of minutes,” Iris says to him as Lorraine advances further into the room, approaching the desk.

He nods back again, even though he knows that’s not true, that this is their final goodbye for the evening. They mouth to each other their farewell, Louis waving on his way out.

Iris is relieved that the act ran so smoothly, that Lorraine is taking a seat without any form of suspicion on her face, but there’s a part of her which hates it – hates that this isn’t the reality, that she isn’t going to be driven home by him, spend the night together in their own shared flat, Iris complaining about all the parents she had to meet while Louis warms up their leftovers. It’s stupid, she knows that, but…

It’s only natural that she wishes Louis were older.

Maybe then, she wouldn’t have to worry about him abandoning her in five months’ time.


End file.
